Prepared to Stay Alive
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: Steve sometimes jokes that Bucky must have nine lives. Bucky would find it easier to laugh if that wasn't the truth.
1. Chapter 1

Bucky doesn't notice the first time he dies.

Considering he's only five months old, he doesn't notice much of anything. His entire worldview revolves around being fed and clinging to his mother, and though he's faintly aware that he's too hot and that everything hurts more than it should, the only thing he can do about it is scream at the top of his lungs.

His mother notices though. She's been with him since his face first started to grow hot and has been holding him as comfortingly as she can from the moment both she and her husband realised that their infant was experiencing something far worse than a cold. While he goes off in search of a doctor, she continues to rock her screaming child and tries to ignore the choked gasps emerging from lungs far too small to deal with the pneumonia that's attacking them.

She desperately wishes her son would stop his incessant screaming, right up until the moment he does.

It only takes a minute for him to cough several times before opening doe-like eyes and giving her a gummy smile, but to Winifred Barnes that minute feels like years. Years in which she's been screaming non-stop and begging her child to wake as he lies still in her arms, and when he starts mumbling nonsense to her as if he hasn't just given her a heart attack, she throws aside her confusion and clutches him tightly in her arms.

When George returns with the doctor in tow, holding medicines that are no longer needed, she finds that she can't begin to explain what happened and settles for telling him nothing at all. The doctor's examination shows that their son's chest is clear in spite of the crackled wheezing which plagued him that morning and his temperature is starting to go down, and he leaves them with the assurance that their child will be well in a few days. Despite George's confusion over how quickly their son has recovered, he simply shrugs and puts the medicines in a cabinet for a future occasion, while Winifred looks down at the child drifting off to sleep in her arms, silently trying to make sense of everything.

She doesn't leave her son's side for two weeks. Every time she sleeps she can still see his blue lips and hear the silence in his chest, so she forgoes rest in order to watch as he sleeps peacefully in his crib, her finger clutched tightly in one chubby hand.

It takes those two weeks for her to decide that what happened on that fateful day must have been a trick of her anxious mind and that the hysteria of experiencing her son's first illness had clouded her perception. It's a much easier explanation to accept than the one in which her son dragged himself back to life in her arms.

This acceptance doesn't stop her from affectionately calling Bucky 'her miracle' for ten years, though.

She never tells him why.

* * *

 **A/N - This is one of those stories that wouldn't stop nagging at me until I wrote it down. Thankfully, by its very nature it'll be strictly nine chapters so there isn't much room for me to get as carried away as I have in the past :)**

 **I hope you enjoy this and I'll try to get the rest written and uploaded as soon as I can!**


	2. Chapter 2

The second time he dies is also the first time he meets Steve which, admittedly, isn't a typical starting point for a relationship.

To be fair, as soon as his eight-year-old self decides that standing up to three bulky teenagers cornering a small boy in an alley is a good idea, the circumstances write themselves. Bucky gets a few good hits in, seeming to surprise the trio with how scrappy he can be in a fight, and there's a satisfying howl of pain when he aims a kick at one of their crotches. He laughs as his opponent goes down with tears streaming from his eyes, and out of the corner of his eye he spots the boy he's supposed to be protecting getting up to fight himself.

Something like pride spreads warmly throughout his chest, before he's roughly grabbed by the largest bully and slammed against a wall, his head bouncing against solid brick and leaving him nauseous and dazed. He's only vaguely aware of the hideous face of his attacker leaning uncomfortably close to his own, spitting threats he cannot hear, and he feels the temptation to giggle when the expression on that face starts to twist into something like horror before he's unceremoniously dropped to the ground and the teenagers run off, cursing loudly.

The ground is oddly comfortable as he rests his head against it, and it's easier than it should be to ignore the throbbing in his skull as he drifts into what feels like sleep.

He drifts into the warm sensation of being enveloped in someone's arms, and Bucky half-expects to wake to his mother's face, but when his eyes finally drag open and he lets out a pained groan, the only sight that greets him is the gaunt, panicked face of the boy he tried to save. It's like he's been thrown back to earth and every joint aches, though he notices with confusion that the throbbing at the back of his head has gone.

At the sight of his eyes opening, his companion falls back against the opposite wall with a gasp of what might be relief. Bucky decides to use that as a cue to sit up, and though every movement hurts enough to have pathetic groans escaping his lips, it takes less time than he expects for him to rise and rest his back against the wall with his knees pressed to his chest.

"I thought you was a goner," the small boy says, as curious blue eyes scan over Bucky to check that he's still in one piece. The alley's surprisingly quiet with their attackers gone, and timeless too; Bucky can't tell if he's been asleep for seconds or hours.

"Yeah, so did I," he responds with a nervous laugh, before feeling at the back of his head where the pain had been. The hair beneath his hand feels warm and sticky with blood, and yet he can find no trace of a wound. On top of that, there's a phantom warmth that seems to have settled into his bones, as if he's just emerged from a warm embrace, and it strikes such a contrast to the cold air of the alley that he shivers with discomfort.

If his companion notices his unease, he doesn't mention it. He simply edges closer and holds out a bony hand while offering Bucky a gap-toothed smile. "I'm Steve. I figure I should probably thank you for earlier."

Bucky looks at the boy properly for the first time. Steve's size and the way his clothes seem to be hanging off him suggest he must be around five or six, though there's a wisdom burning in those eyes that makes him seem older. His bones are visible under thin, pale skin and yet the kindness in his smile and eyes make him seem more alive than most people Bucky's met, and where he assumes others must see only weakness, he thinks he can already see the strength hidden within Steve.

He extends a hand of his own and shakes Steve's proffered hand while giving him a smile of his own. "I'm James, but most people call me Bucky."

The grin on Steve's face gets impossibly wider, before he lets go of Bucky's hand and rises to his feet. Bucky follows suit, still a little shaky but feeling much better than he imagines he should.

"Nice to meet ya, Bucky," Steve says, before scratching the back of his head sheepishly. It strikes Bucky that there's something oddly charming about his new friend; he seems like he's willing to take on the world despite knowing the challenges he'll face if he does. Even when Bucky'd turned into the alley to see Steve facing three boys much larger and older than himself, he'd had his fists clenched and had adorned a fighting stance, not bothering to accept the idea that such a battle would be a losing one.

Bucky can appreciate that. He imagines it'll cause a fair amount of grief in the long run, but for now the kid has his respect.

"You live far from here?" he asks eventually.

"Nah, only a couple a' blocks away," Steve says with a small smile and a shrug. "Was on my way home when… y'know."

Bucky nods. It seems they go to the same school then, although Steve must be a year or two below him considering he doesn't think he's seen him before.

He wanders over to the discarded backpack lying next to the trashcans Steve had been pushed against earlier and hands it back to him with a weak smile. "I can walk you home? I ain't got too far to go either."

Something that might be hesitation flashes over Steve's face – damaged pride perhaps – and Bucky feels his heart sink a little as he expects the answer to be 'no'. Relief floods through him though, when Steve looks back up and nods enthusiastically, and they both walk out of the alley and into the open street in tandem.

Their journey home is filled with excited chatter. Steve talks about his mom and his drawings and how he wants to be an artist one day, while Bucky talks about his little sister and the mischief she causes at his expense. It's strangely easy to talk to Steve and even easier to laugh with him, and by the time they arrive outside the door of an apartment which lies barely a block from Bucky's own, it feels like they've known each other for months rather than a mere hour.

When Steve asks if he'll see him again just before going inside, there's no hesitation in Bucky's voice when he answers 'yes'.

As he makes his way towards his own home, trying to hide the warm smile that keeps breaking across his face, he starts to forget the wound that seemed to magically vanish from his skull.

More important things have happened that day.


	3. Chapter 3

The third death is the first in which Bucky starts to think there's something strange going on.

The incident when he was eight years old still preys on his mind on occasion, yet it's so easily overshadowed by the meeting that occurred immediately afterward that it's easy enough to push away. He must simply have been stunned by the impact of the wall against his skull and his wound must have been too small and insignificant to feel. Any other explanation for him seeming to have walked off a head injury is too absurd to think about, and besides, considering he was introduced to Steve the moment he awoke, he should only be grateful that he wasn't so badly hurt as he'd first thought.

He learns to forget his brush with death and move on with his life, right up until the moment where he's surrounded by flying bullets on a muddy battlefield.

Fear lances through him as he aims his own rifle at faceless enemies across the field, ducking just in time to avoid the bullets ripping through the air and the blasts which send mud and men alike flying. As much as he tries to swallow his fear and lock it within a cage, he can feel his heart racing and his every breath being pried painfully from his lungs, and as more and more men who only yesterday were boys start to fall around him, the only thing he can feel is a deep sense of hopelessness.

Another blast lands barely metres away, leaving a harsh ringing in Bucky's ears followed by pained screams, and he swears under his breath before lifting his head above the trench as far as he dares and firing off several more shots in the enemy's direction. There's not much more he can do – any orders the 107th were following fell apart ages ago – and when the realisation that he's probably going to die sinks in, he finds that he's calmer about that than he should be. His body may scream in protest in its insistence to stay alive, but his mind quietens and the focus that fear had robbed from him starts to return, and he thinks of Steve and his little sister only once before throwing himself mindlessly into the fight.

Beside him, a young soldier is curled against the muddy wall of the trench, sobbing as blood runs down his face and seemingly oblivious to the orders being thrown his way by the older man beside him. His sobs only increase in intensity when his superior falls, a clean hole through his forehead, and though he tries to rise to his feet and follow the instructions given to him, his actions are clumsy and his hands shake as he aims his gun. Bucky turns away from the kid, trying not to sink into the same level of hysteria, but the panic he'd managed to shut out returns as a high whistle fills the air and seems to approach ever closer.

Instinct grips him then. He swears under his breath and throws himself over the young man at his side, just in time to protect him as a blast lands barely five feet away. There's nothing Bucky can do to save himself though, and he can't stop the scream that tears from his throat as his body is riddled with shrapnel.

The pain becomes all he can feel. It drowns out the noise and the wetness of the mud that continues to rain down on him, and the last thing he sees before darkness snatches his vision is the young soldier crawling to his side and frantically trying to stop the bleeding.

That should be the end. When conscious thought slowly makes its way back to Bucky, the only thing he knows with any certainty is that he must surely be dead.

When he opens his eyes, his vision is no longer assaulted by mud and gunfire. All that greets him is a warm gold reminiscent of the morning sun, and the oddly familiar sensation of a comforting embrace flows throughout his entire being. He finds he cannot move, though he doesn't really mind, and when a voice soft as honey sounds in his ears he doesn't have the strength to be surprised.

"You again?"

The voice is kind, amused, and when he closes his eyes again there's the sensation a warm hand against his cheek. He wants to ask where he is and what happens now, but before he can open his mouth there's a sensation like a rope jerking him backwards and he wakes in a ditch with a harsh gasp and cold rain lashing against his face.

He doesn't know how long it takes for the reality of what's just happened to sink in. He remembers the blast – the shrapnel tearing through his flesh and the fear in the young soldier's eyes – but when he looks down at his shredded, blood-stained uniform, he can see no wounds beneath the fabric. His flesh is unmarred even by a scar, and though he knows his lungs and heart should be damaged beyond repair he can hear his heart roaring in his ears and his lungs fill with every breath. The mud clinging to his skin and the ice-cold rain is unpleasant, but no pain makes itself evident.

He's alive, as impossible as that is.

There's nothing left for him to do but turn onto his side and assess his situation. The roar of activity that surrounded him earlier has been replaced with an eerie nothingness, and he can't stop his broken sob when he sees the kid he tried to save lying by his side, glassy eyes staring at nothing.

Bucky reaches out his hands and scrabbles through the wet mud, forcing himself up the side of the trench to look out at the horizon and try to gain some understanding of what's happened.

What he sees has his heart crashing into his stomach. Enemy soldiers scout the surroundings; metallic masks shielding their faces from view and heavy, unfamiliar weapons in their grasp. Bucky vaguely recognises the red skull symbol plastered upon their helmets and throws himself back into the trench as quietly as he can, knowing there's little he can do but hide.

A crunch of metal beneath heavy boots is his first indicator that there's little use in that anymore.

He turns sharply only to find himself facing three heavily-armed enemies, each staring down at him like he's a piece of meat. Instinct screams at him to reach for his rifle, though he's not sure he even knows where it is and besides, he's pretty sure he'd be shot down before he even laid hands on it. With that option ruled out, he can do little more than stare up at the new arrivals with an expression he hopes resembles defiance.

The three men share a look - though what they're reading in those expressionless masks, Bucky cannot say - before advancing towards him. He tries to back away, though he knows such actions are futile; if anything, his feeble efforts only seem to amuse his assailants. Two of them pull him up by his arms with a sharp jerk, holding on tightly even as he struggles, and his protests are silenced when the remaining member of the group brings a harsh fist down across his cheek, leaving him dazed and spitting blood on the ground.

If their aim is to stop his useless fighting then they seem to have succeeded. The only reaction he can muster to hearing the words "We'll take this one," being uttered in German is a pitiful groan, before he lets himself surrender to blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

 **A/N - I hope you're enjoying this so far. I have the remaining chapters mapped out and am aiming to have them finished as soon as possible.**

 **As always, thank you for reading and any feedback is appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 4

While trapped in the bowels of a Hydra facility, Bucky realises that he's no longer scared of death.

It's an odd state of mind to adopt when surrounded by dozens of terrified men from his unit, their dreams of glory brutally shattered, but a strange calmness washes over him as he sits in his cell and blocks out the noise of the world around him. There's one other member of their group who seems to feel the same – an older man he's heard being affectionately called 'Dum Dum Dugan' who gives off the air of not being afraid of anything – but as the days drag on and the rising anxiety becomes palpable in the air, Bucky starts to wonder whether the man's fearlessness is simply a front to reassure the younger members of their group. It seems to work, if only a little, and in the rare moments where he lets himself take in his surroundings, Bucky finds it easy to laugh at Dugan's outlandish stories.

Unfortunately, his newfound inability to fear death isn't enough to wipe his own anxieties from his mind. In the mornings, within an hour of them all being fed and watered, several guards gather within the prison compound and scan each of the cells before selecting two to three men to be dragged away, kicking and screaming. In the two weeks Bucky has been here he's yet to see anyone return, and with each passing day the sickening dread that builds at the sight of the guards becomes more and more suffocating.

It hits him, as he tries to sleep one night, that while he may not fear death, he certainly fears being sent back to something worse. When the ultimate form of escape isn't an option for him, he can only wonder what horrors he will be forced to endure instead.

It would help if his situation made an ounce of sense. He knows he was involved in a blast that should have killed him - can still feel the phantom pain of shrapnel digging into his flesh - and yet when he roams his hands over his torso, the skin underneath is smooth and unbroken. When he thinks of all the men he saw die in the trench, including the kid he tried to save, there doesn't seem to be any reason for _him_ being the only one to return. He wishes there was; his current hopeless state would be a lot easier to endure if he knew exactly why it was so vital that he live to experience it.

These musings, which disturb what little sleep he gets, are mercifully interrupted one morning when he's shaken by Dugan, and Bucky reluctantly awakens and forces a smile as he looks up into wise old eyes and a comically large moustache. The smile is returned, though not even Dum Dum can make it seem genuine anymore, and Bucky gratefully accepts the small cup of water that's handed to him, indulging in a few sips before passing the cup along to the man beside him.

Their food and water rations have been getting smaller lately. It's almost like Hydra are holding a flashing sign listing them all as expendable.

As has become routine, once Bucky finishes the small portion of bread that's passed his way, he simply clenches his jaw in preparation for the arrival of the guards. On his right, he can feel the tension in Dugan's body as well, and the cells start to fall silent as the remaining men anticipate the loss of yet more of their number.

Not knowing what happens when they're taken away is the worst part. Bucky's seen enough by this point to imagine the horrors that lie beyond those long corridors, and he thinks it would be easier if Hydra bragged about what happened to the men they took away.

At least then there'd be little chance of his mind conjuring up something worse.

It isn't long before the tell-tale screech of metal doors being opened echoes throughout the cells, and Bucky steels himself as he does every morning. On his other side, he can feel the trembling body of a young soldier – a kid barely older than his sister – and he finds his eyes drawn to the sweaty hands fidgeting in the kid's lap. He's found that it's easier to focus on mundane details while the guards wander along the cells in order to block out their presence, but such tactics become impossible when the kid freezes and his head jerks towards the door. Against his better judgement, Bucky's gaze follows suit and he looks over to see two armed guards meticulously scanning the faces of every man in their cell, their eyes narrowed as if trying to see into their very souls. The sight makes him shudder but he recovers quickly, wiping all emotion from his face to appear unaffected. Whether that works, he cannot say, but the guards don't linger on him for very long even as time seems to drag endlessly onwards.

After what feels like a lifetime, the taller of the two points to the kid on his left, and Bucky feels his heart sink a little when he hears the words "That one" in German. To his credit, the kid doesn't panic and simply sits still as the door is pulled open and the guards begin their approach, but if anything, that only makes Bucky feel worse. He turns to see the young man's face now white as a sheet and his eyes focussed on something distant as if he's already dead, and a fierce anger over how unfair this situation is overwhelms him before he can stop it.

What he does next is incredibly stupid, so much so he can imagine Steve shaking his head from thousands of miles away, but he can't bring himself to care. It's not like he has anything to lose anyway.

Bucky rises to his feet, his fear forgotten, and places himself in front of the kid like a shield. He feels a hand on his right arm and hears Dugan's voice saying "Son, what are you doing?" but he pulls his arm away and tries to summon all the courage he can muster. The guards seem surprised by his actions, though they recover quickly enough, and he doesn't miss the way their hands tighten around their guns.

"Take me instead," Bucky says in English, for though he knows German well enough he doesn't want to give Hydra the satisfaction of using it. The guards seem to understand him anyway. "Leave the kid."

His false bravery seems to make the guards hesitate for a split second, before they march towards him with contempt lacing their features. The closest tries to shove him aside and, in English, whispers a harsh "Get out of the way," but in a moment of madness Bucky throws a punch towards the man's face and feels a satisfying crack as his fist meets a jaw. The guard howls in pain, but Bucky doesn't have time to celebrate before he's roughly grabbed by the other guard and feels a gun resting against the back of his head. The message noted, Bucky stops struggling and simply watches as the guard he attacked stalks towards him like a scorned tiger and brings the butt of his gun across his cheek, throwing his head to the side with the force of the hit.

In spite of everything, he feels a weak sense of pride when he recognises the German for "Fine, we'll take him instead" being uttered and he lets himself go boneless as he's dragged away from the cell, barely aware of the protests coming from the soldiers behind him. Perhaps he couldn't save the kid in the trench, but he hopes he's done some good today despite the punishment he'll surely face as a result.

The corridors he's dragged along seem never-ending, and it doesn't help that his vision swims from the force of the impact to his head. All he can see is a lifeless grey and the only reason he's still standing is due to the strong arms holding him upright, forcing him towards a destination that's haunted his nightmares for weeks. Oddly, he's not as afraid as he probably should be – the faux-bravado still heating his blood – but he knows it may only be seconds before that changes.

His fear returns soon enough when he's pulled into a side-room containing little more than a long table with straps and a tray loaded with syringes and drips, and Bucky only notices the room's other occupant when his head is roughly pulled upright by the guard at his back. The man before him is a tiny weasel-like creature, with beady eyes enlarged by round glasses and a small pile of papers held tightly in his arms. The man studies Bucky like he's a specimen under a microscope – those cold eyes making him shudder – before he acknowledges the guards, focussing only for a moment on the impressive bruise on the face of the man Bucky attacked before turning towards the tray of equipment.

"Why have you brought me this one?" he asks eventually, and in his exhaustion it takes longer for Bucky to translate than it should.

"The idiot volunteered," is the response from behind him, and in spite of his situation, Bucky feels pride welling in his chest at the annoyance in the guard's tone. "Tried to start a fight when we chose to take his friend."

"Interesting…" the small man says, as he reaches across the tray and picks up a syringe. There's something in his voice that suggests he hardly cares about the circumstances behind Bucky's selection and would much rather start his work in peace, and the fear that Bucky tried so hard to banish returns. "Place him on the table."

The guards do, brushing off Bucky's pathetic struggles as they force him to lie flat on the table, and make quick work of tightening the leather straps around his body. The restraints make movement nigh on impossible, and it isn't long before Bucky merely slumps, defeated and exhausted, and brings his eyes to the ceiling in an attempt to block out the activity surrounding him.

It becomes strangely easy to ignore the voices of the three men, especially when he stops making an effort to translate the German in his head, and he doesn't even have the strength to jump when he feels a sharp scratch as a needle is inserted into his arm. Morbid curiosity makes him wonder what's going to happen for only a moment before he decides he'd rather not know and closes his eyes, resigned and waiting.

Not much happens for a long while, and he's tempted to open his eyes again before the cool sensation of liquid starts to flow through the veins in his arm towards his chest, and he shudders as his right side turns to ice. It isn't long before ice becomes fire, as if his blood is being replaced with molten lava, and within seconds his entire body seems to burn with the ferocity of it. He must scream, if the tearing sensation in his throat is any indication, but the roaring of his heart drowns out the sound and it feels like the world around him has fallen away, leaving him alone in the dark.

The fire lasts for hours. As the chemicals in his veins are slowly spread throughout his entire body, the pain only intensifies with no remorse, and while he's still capable of conscious thought, Bucky can't help but regret the actions which led him here. Coherent thought escapes him before long, however; his entire existence becomes narrowed to the pain and the small moments of reprieve in which he passes out, before a sharp slap across his cheek forces him back to wakefulness. He cannot say how long this cycle lasts, only that it feels endless, and when his useless human heart finally gives out, the only thing he can feel is relief.

For the first time, the warm gold in which he finds himself seems menacing. He knows what happens now – knows that he will be sent back to the hell he's just escaped – but in spite of the loved ones he knows he'll be leaving behind if he does, he selfishly finds himself wishing he could stay here.

"Do I have to go back?" he asks.

His voice seems to echo around the light space as if floating on a breeze. There's no answer for a long time, to the point where he begins to wonder if he imagined the voice that greeted him when he was last here, but eventually the usual sense of being held in a loved-one's arms and the silky-smooth voice returns.

"Yes child. I'm sorry."

The voice belongs to a woman, though he cannot see its source. In spite of the cold dread that fills him at the implication of her words, the kindness in her tone is almost soothing, as if he is a child being comforted by his mother. He wishes he could stay a little longer and indulge in the sensation of surrendering to a warm embrace after a long day, but he knows that is likely not a luxury that's open to him, and though it pains him to do so, he steels himself for the awful moment in which he'll awaken.

There's just one thing he needs to know before he goes back. One thing to calm his mind before he tries to sleep at night.

"Will I ever stay dead?"

His words elicit a laugh, a lovely musical sound that has him smiling too, despite everything, and when he closes his eyes the feeling of a soft hand against his cheek returns. He wonders if he'll see the owner of the voice if he opens his eyes now, but decides against doing so.

"You will one day, but it is not yet your time."

The words have barely been uttered before he feels the rough surface of a table against his back and tight restraints holding him down, and a burning in his chest reminds him that it would probably be a good idea to breathe.

When he does, a pained gasp emerges from his throat and his eyes snap open to reveal that he's not alone. The weasel of a scientist is standing by his side, an amusing mix of fear and stunned shock crossing his features, but he doesn't seem to have long to process what he's seen before he gathers some important looking documents and scurries off as if an army is at his back.

It's only then that Bucky hears the distant alarms sounding throughout the compound and he clenches his eyes shut against the flashing red lights visible beyond the windows. He's so tired he feels he could sleep where he lies, and when he hears distant footfalls in the corridors, the only thing he has the strength to do is utter his name, rank and serial number like a broken mantra.

The footfalls get closer in spite of his silent wishes for them to go away, but when a familiar voice breaks through his funk, Bucky forces himself to open his eyes.

The sight that greets him is both wonderfully familiar yet somehow alien. Steve's face in the midst of this hell has a weak smile spreading across his face even as the impossibility of his presence starts to sink in, and the first indication he gets that he's free from his restraints is when he feels surprisingly strong arms pulling him from the table. The sudden movement is dizzying, and Bucky thinks he'd fall if he weren't being held so tightly by Steve, and it's only when his vision stops swirling like wet paint that he's able to acknowledge just how different his friend has become.

"I thought you were dead," Steve says, unable to hide the worry still clinging to his mind, and Bucky resists the urge to laugh and tell him that he wasn't entirely wrong about that.

Instead, he decides to touch on the one thing that's been bugging him since he first laid eyes on Steve after all these months; the thing that makes his supposed immortality seem somewhat less bizarre.

"I thought you were smaller."

* * *

 **A/N - It's been a while since I've seen CA:TFA so I may be taking some liberties with certain details (particularly Bucky knowing Dugan - I know there's a deleted scene with them fighting together before being captured by Hydra, but I'm not sure if they'd met by this point in the actual movie). Hopefully this is still okay though!**

 **Thank you for the response so far. I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**


	5. Chapter 5

It takes him more than a year to die again. Considering the danger the Howling Commandos throw themselves into every day, Bucky counts that as an achievement.

He imagines part of it is due to an unwillingness to force either Steve or Dugan to lose him again, no matter how briefly. Being properly reunited with them both after the initial madness of their escape essentially consists of him being gripped in a crushing hug and, in Dugan's case, being told never to do something so stupid again.

Steve is slightly less revealing about what the impact of thinking him dead had been, but they've been friends long enough now that Bucky can tell when Steve refuses to take his eyes off him when he thinks he's not looking, and notices that he very rarely leaves his side. He calms a little when they head back to London to figure out what their place in the war is going forward - by which point it's Bucky's turn to freak out about Steve being an idiot who allowed himself to become a human guinea-pig - but his new role as Captain means that he takes it upon himself to look out for every member of their makeshift team, and Bucky knows that if anything were to happen to him then Steve would never forgive himself.

It takes a while – the ghosts of Hydra still clinging to him no matter how hard he tries to tear them away – but he learns to enjoy being a Howling Commando. Part of him has grown tired of the war which now seems unending and has already killed him twice, and he's haunted by the notion that he can still feel burning chemicals in his veins, but when they all find themselves gathered around a campfire and telling stories of home, Bucky finds it easy to smile and even share stories of his own, often at Steve's expense. The company becomes more rewarding than the work; the missions merely a distraction – a means to focus his mind and forget his demons – but as more and more of Hydra starts to burn, a warm satisfaction starts to overtake the memories of what they did to him.

There's the odd moment where he acts rashly. Where he'll run into a burning building at the sound of a child's screams, or volunteer to take over the most dangerous part of a mission in order to spare someone like Dugan or Falsworth from endangering themselves. He doesn't let that become a habit, mainly because he doesn't think Steve would let him, but he does it just enough to hopefully reduce the risk of someone else in their team dying.

Bucky, at least, has some guarantee that such a predicament would merely be temporary. He knows only too well that his friends do not have such a privilege.

Once, when he emerges alone from the trees as nonchalantly as he's able considering the ash of the explosion he's just escaped is clinging to his face, Steve laughs to hide his fear and offhandedly jokes that Bucky must have nine lives.

It'd be a lot easier to laugh if it wasn't true.

* * *

In the end, it's only a matter of time before yet more of those lives are spent. It gets to the stage where Bucky knows their luck has to run out at some point, considering it's been a long time since they lost one of their own, but that isn't enough to prepare him for the reality that comes with falling.

The wind bites at his skin as the ground looms ever closer; his scream eventually gets caught in his throat while his stomach lurches at the sickening sensation of falling, and the image of Steve's horrified face has been burned onto his retinas. Time seems to slow, dragging out the inevitable, and a new pain assaults his left side, ripping another scream from his throat, before he hits the ground and shatters like a broken doll.

In a kinder world he'd die instantly, but his body stubbornly clings to life even as his mind begs it to let go. His world explodes with pain as broken ribs pierce his lungs and leave him with a burning tightness in his chest; there's a sickening lightness on his left side while the right seems heavy and broken, and it hits him that he cannot feel his legs. Somehow that knowledge only makes him laugh, although the sound emerges as a harsh gasp.

It takes a long time for him to die. Longer than it should, considering he's pretty sure most people would have been killed on impact, and the extra time only serves to make guilt bubble up in his mind. He wasn't supposed to get hurt again, wasn't supposed to put Steve through that pain, and though there's a chance he'll end up stumbling back to camp in a matter of hours, that'll still leave a lot of explaining and apologising to do.

Steve thinks he's gone. On a train getting ever-further away, Steve thinks he's just watched Bucky die and god only knows how he'll react.

Bucky can only hope he won't use it as an excuse to become reckless, though he's hardly going to complain if Zola gets hurt in the process.

When death finally catches up to him, it does so suddenly. One second he's in pain, gasping for breath with his eyes fixed on looming mountains, the next he's being swallowed by light and feeling warmth replace the ice in his bones. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, surprised to find that doing so doesn't hurt, and when he opens them again he finds that he's facing a woman.

She's as beautiful as her voice. An ageless face and bright eyes smile warmly at him, while dark skin contrasts with the liquid gold of a dress that seems to blend into the light surrounding them. Though she seems solid enough, there's an ethereal quality to her as if his hands would grasp air if he reached out to touch, and she manages to appear both youthful and ancient; a playfulness in her eyes not quite enough to hide the wisdom that so many years have dealt her.

Any words he may have intended to say get caught in his throat. As if taking pity on him, she begins to walk forward, the light parting before her like smoke, and speaks up first.

"Look who's back," she says, her warm voice tinged with humour. In spite of his confusion, Bucky finds himself smiling. "Were you starting to miss me?"

"I'm not here on purpose," he replies, more solemnly than he intends though the woman doesn't seem to mind. In terms of personifications of death, she's a lot more comforting than the horror stories he's grown up with. "Do I get to stay this time?"

It's a question that's been gnawing at him since he first saw her. If she is finally presenting herself to him then perhaps this is truly the end and he's reached his time at last.

Any notion of that vanishes, however, when her expression softens and she shakes her head in a silent apology.

"Why not?" he asks, because he knows that being thrown back to earth now will only lead to yet more suffering in the cold, with his friends too far away to help. It doesn't seem fair, when the alternative is light and warmth and some much-needed peace. "Why do I keep getting sent back?"

She takes a while to answer. It gets to the point where the silence drags for so long that Bucky begins to wonder if an answer even exists, or if he's little more than a plaything she finds enjoyment in sending back to a situation even worse than the one he escaped. He doubts that – surely a creature that cruel wouldn't seem so kind – but it's hard to be rational and accepting of his fate when he doesn't know why he's the one that keeps getting subjected to it.

Something not unlike pity crosses over her face and Bucky starts to wonder if she can read his thoughts. He wouldn't put it past her.

"There are some who die before their time and the world adapts. It recovers and moves on," she says, her silky voice seeming to fill the space around him. It's comforting to hear, despite him not understanding a single thing she's saying. "However there are some, like yourself, who still have so much more to do. I could take you with me now, if you truly wanted me to, but your absence would alter the world in ways not even I can comprehend."

Her voice fades into silence, leaving him staring at her form that somehow seems corporeal yet in danger of floating into dust at any minute, and for a long moment there's nothing he can do but gape. When even that becomes tedious he finds a bark of laughter escaping him, and he clenches his eyes shut in some vague hope that this is merely an outlandish dream and he'll wake in his tent in some freezing forest in the Alps.

When he opens his eyes again, that smothering light continues to surround him and he swears under his breath. To her credit, the woman only quirks her lips in amusement.

"Why me?" he asks when his voice returns to him and the sensation of being overwhelmed starts to fade. What replaces it is bitter exhaustion and grief for all the men better than himself who were simply left to rot. "What makes me any more special than anyone else? Hell, Steve must have far more to offer the world than I do."

"He has his role, that is true," she responds, seemingly unaffected by his growing distress. "Which is why I've already sent him back twice. Not that he'd remember; he was very sick both times, and delirious. I would have been one feverish dream among many."

She smiles fondly, seeming to remember Steve even though Bucky imagines he must only have been one life among the billions she's seen. The revelation that he is not alone in the world – that even Steve has experienced the things he has, whether he realises it or not – makes his heart feel a little lighter, while somehow making the weight of responsibility feel even more crushing. How can he hope to have as much impact on the world as Steve, who is so fundamentally good and brave in a way Bucky often feels he isn't?

It makes him wonder again if this is all purely a joke masterminded by beings far more powerful than himself. That's the only explanation he can come up with for why he's been forced to remember these encounters so intensely while Steve gets to live his life blissfully unaware that he's already cheated death twice.

"Most people who return tend not to remember me," the woman says, reading his thoughts as if they are scrawled across his forehead. "We've just run into each other more often than usual."

He can't help but laugh at that, and despite everything, he feels a sense of comfort settle over him when her musical laugh joins in. Deciding that he'd rather not dwell on the weight of his own apparent responsibilities any longer, he takes a look around his formless surroundings – seeing little more than golden light – before taking a steadying breath and facing his companion once more.

"So, you're Death huh? You're what everyone faces in the end?"

She seems to ponder the question before shrugging, somehow managing to make even that action seem elegant.

"In a sense, yes."

Bucky merely nods. It should be odd that he's encountered enough strangeness in his life that having a casual conversation with Death is almost normal. He wonders if she'd prefer him to be in awe of her, or whether he should even fear her like he would the dark depictions of death from old legends, but her mere presence exudes kindness and comfort in a way that makes fear unreachable.

A twisted notion settles in his brain then, threatening to darken the brief moment of peace he should be desperately clinging to.

"What about people like Zola and Schmidt," he forces himself to ask, and a fire burns in his chest as he imagines the possibility that those monsters will face the same comfort as those who suffered at their hands, their actions inciting zero consequences. "Will they see you too?"

Though a neat, dark eyebrow raises at his question, she doesn't seem surprised at him having asked it. She waits a few moments, as if trying to figure out how to explain in a manner his tiny human brain will understand, and when she finally speaks the comfort is replaced with a palpable wisdom that must come from billions of years of existence.

"I have many forms. You are seeing but one in millions," she says, and as she speaks her body seems to become fluid, shifting, as if for a second he can see all of her faces melding into one. The moment only lasts a second however, before the kind face returns and the liquid gold of her dress stills like she's stepped inside from the wind. "The form they meet when their time comes will be less… welcoming, shall we say."

Bucky nods, darkly satisfied by the answer. Thankfully, the woman doesn't seem to expect him to have pity for his fellow man or forgive them for their terrible deeds; if anything, his own satisfaction at what awaits Zola and the Red Skull and so many others like them seems to be mirrored on her own face.

He sighs and looks around again, becoming very aware that he is spending too long here. The longer he stays, the less he wants to leave, and though part of him knows that staying is likely the better option from a selfish point of view, her words from earlier have made themselves at home in his mind. He may be incapable of seeing how he could possibly be important enough to be sent back time and time again, but a being far more powerful than he is seems to believe there must be a reason for it and he's not sure he has the strength to contradict her.

"I really have to go back, don't I?"

He sounds more pitiful than he'd like, the words cracking as they leave his mouth, but though his eyes burn at the anticipation of the pain he'll face when he wakes alone, he manages not to break.

He doesn't look back to her, knowing that the comforting motherliness she exudes will only tempt him to stay, but he still clings to her every word when she speaks.

"I will not force you, child," she says, her voice sad, and he jumps when he feels her warm hand curl around his own. "But take heed; I may not know why it is so necessary to keep you alive any more than you do, but I do know that it must be important."

That's that then. He takes a single moment to curse the stubborn will to live that's preventing him from finding peace all over again, before nodding and resigning himself to the feeling of being yanked back into his body.

When he wakes, he realises that he's moving. Something is dragging his body along the snow, the stump where his arm once was leaving blood trailing behind him. He watches the red break through the white with morbid curiosity before he realises that the sensation in his legs has returned to him and the feeling of a thousand needles sticking into his lungs has gone. A broken laugh escapes him as he takes in the ruined remains of his left arm and realises that Death must only concern herself with healing his deadlier wounds, and the harsh sound has whatever's dragging him halting in the snow.

It's only then that he looks up into the grim face of an unknown soldier, his body wrapped up warmly to protect him from the bitter cold, and though the shock at their cargo still being alive flashes over his expression briefly, he eventually shrugs and nods at the man who must be dragging Bucky along and they start moving again.

Where they're going, Bucky doesn't know. He's lucid enough to know that it can hardly be anywhere good but not enough to care, and he lets his eyes drift shut in an attempt to escape from the world just a little longer.

A warmth settles throughout his body, protecting him from the ice, and when a kind voice in his head whispers " _Sleep_ " it takes little time for him to obey.


	6. Chapter 6

The sixth death is the only one that is not truly his own.

The Asset has no memories of his life as Bucky Barnes – no notion of an existence beyond the ice and chair and the momentary thrill that comes with missions – and though he has little fear of death, that's mainly because Hydra would hardly tolerate him fearing anything. The jolt that fires through his heart every time he catches sight of the chair is one he must swallow down and hide; it would not do him any good to remind Hydra that he is a creature capable of feeling.

There are a few among his handlers who must surely suspect that something more is lurking beneath the surface. The blond man who calls himself Pierce will often study him following the delivery of a mission report, as if waiting for a mask to fall away, and he knows that Karpov distrusts him though he does not know why. The Asset has no recollection of ever making his handlers doubt his obedience, but then, he often suspects that they know him better than he knows himself. They are his creators after all; the puppeteers who have moulded him to their design and throw him into the chair to be rewritten when it suits them.

He supposes it will only be a matter of time before he disappoints them enough for them to discard him.

The new Winter Soldiers are perfect. As he spars with their leader, the silent eyes of his handlers watching like hawks, The Asset feels something like fear sink into his chest as all his efforts do little to halt his opponent's progress, and he can only roar in pain when his arm is twisted behind his back and he's thrown against the wall like a rag doll. Looking up at his assailant, he can see the muscles straining under his skin and the rage decorating his features, and he can only imagine how his handlers must feel about their new brutal work of art.

It's almost amusing, how The Asset's last mission was to retrieve the serum that would create those capable of usurping him, and if he wasn't in so much pain he might even dare to smile.

He drags himself upright, his eyes glancing to the remaining Soldiers who seem to be watching the proceedings intently, and for a long time he can hear nothing but the roaring of his heart. His handlers and the researches are talking, though not to him, and he only takes a moment to notice that the murderous rage in his opponent's face has refused to settle before he's deafened by a sudden scream.

An unassuming doctor is thrown to the ground, his neck snapping on hard concrete, and before anyone can move, the remaining Soldiers join their leader in a flurry of brutal activity. The Asset doesn't know whether to be afraid or thrilled as a rebellion he could only dream of inciting breaks out, but any notion of feeling anything is destroyed when he feels the barrel of a gun against his temple, and Karpov's hesitant command to protect him rings in his ears.

He does as he's told, knowing the only other option is a bullet, and begins his charge through the fray as his handler holds onto him like a frightened child. Whenever someone gets in the way, he merely pushes them aside be they scientist or Soldier, and his orders take over leaving him with no other goal but to get Karpov to safety. Part of him's tempted to join in – to turn and break Karpov's neck – but doing so would likely be fatal and though he does not know why, he finds that he has little wish to die.

They reach a cell and he clumsily throws Karpov inside before slamming the gate shut behind him. At his back, his handler collapses in a heap, appearing more human than The Asset has ever seen him, but it doesn't take long for the activity outside to steal his attention away. The Soldiers have left several broken bodies on the floor, though the arrival of a team of armed guards seems to be slowing them down. Already the leader has blood blossoming from a gunshot wound to the shoulder, though he doesn't seem to notice the pain as he charges towards a younger guard, ignoring all commands to stop, and pulls the gun from his hands before he can summon the courage to fire.

That ends up being the guard's last mistake. The Soldier plants a bullet in his head within seconds, causing the other guards to move back while yelling panicked orders to each other. The Asset simply watches as the scene unfolds, curious, and smirks as one of the women attacks and acquires a gun herself, merely shrugging off the bullet which plants itself in her arm.

In the chaos, it takes him a while to notice that Karpov is speaking behind him, though when he turns he realises that he's not the one being addressed.

"- out of control… No, we're trying, they're not standing down!" he shouts into his radio, running a shaking hand through his hair as barked, distorted orders come through the speaker. The Asset cannot hear what is being said above the noise, but he doesn't miss the way Karpov's face pales and his trembling hand stills.

When the voice on the other end of the radio finally stops, the world seems to quieten and The Asset meets his handler's gaze as he looks up at him, face white as milk.

"All of them, sir?"

The curt response of "да" that follows has Karpov swallowing, before he drops the radio and rises to his feet, facing The Asset as he reaches for his gun. The Asset doesn't move, though he imagines he should, and he's surprised to feel no fear when the gun is lifted and aimed directly at his forehead.

Karpov doesn't say anything before he pulls the trigger, but then, The Asset hardly expects him to.

When he wakes, he finds himself lying on a sea of gold, and Bucky gasps as the weight of everything he'd forgotten comes crashing upon him. There's a hand on his forehead, brushing the hair from his face, but he clenches his eyes shut in order to escape the comfort he does not deserve.

Memories that were once burned from his mind return in full force and it feels like he's been hit by a train, though he can imagine that being more tolerable. He can see his life as Bucky Barnes and his existence as the Winter Soldier warping together like a twisted painting; can feel the blood of the those he's killed staining his hands and the weight of everything he's lost crushing his chest, and the pain is so intense that it takes a while for Death's soothing voice to reach him.

"I'm sorry, child. I'm so sorry."

Her words seem genuine, a pain he hasn't heard her express before slipping into her tone, and he wishes he could hide away with her forever like a child seeking solace in his mother's arms. The universe is rarely so kind, he knows, but he can't see what more he has to offer the world if he's sent back besides pain and death.

"I don't want to go back," he says, choking on tears he hadn't realised he'd been shedding, and the hand on his forehead stills. His handlers' words come back to him like a cruel joke – their empty promises that his actions are helping to shape the world – and a bitter laugh escapes him as he realises they must have been right.

He supposes he was foolish, all those years ago, to assume that what he had to offer the world was something good.

"Perhaps it is," the woman by his side says, her warm hand coming to rest against his cheek and brushing away a stray, burning tear. "You still have time."

If that promise is supposed to be reassuring then it fails. If anything, it feels like a threat; a guarantee that there's still room in his pathetic life to cause more harm. It's not like he even has Steve anymore, or his little sister. They've both been left in the past while he keeps surviving through the decades.

It takes hours for the other possibility of Death's words to sink in. The possibility that, somewhere in his future, there's hope for redemption for the things he's been made to do. A chance to put things right.

He's not sure he deserves such a chance, but he thinks he's willing to take it.

In an attempt to regain some semblance of dignity, he opens his eyes to the light and sits up, bringing his knees to his chest as he evens his breaths. The woman simply waits for him to recover, her golden eyes seeing him more clearly than he's seen himself for many years, and he's surprised to find that when he's finally able to speak, his voice is steady.

"I'll go back," he says, the words ironically feeling like a death sentence. "But I need you to promise me something."

Bucky looks over to the woman kneeling by his side and watches as she gives a single, understanding nod. He suspects she already knows what he's going to say.

"The next time I'm here… if I'm still that _thing_ , I need you to promise that you won't let me go back. No matter how much time I have left, I need you to keep me here. Can you promise me that?"

"I promise," she says with less hesitation than he expects, and in spite of everything, he finds himself smiling with relief. It feels like there's an end in sight at last, assuming the Winter Soldier dies again, and though he knows that returning now will likely lead to yet more pain, there's a slight hope brewing within him that maybe something better will come along as well.

It's a fool's hope perhaps, but it's all he has.

"Okay," he says, as he holds back his approaching fear with a steady breath. "Let's do this."

The woman places a gentle hand on his forehead and for a moment he thinks he can feel the spot where the bullet entered, before that phantom pain vanishes and the light is replaced with a familiar chill.

* * *

When The Asset's eyes creep open and narrow in confusion as memories of a gun being pointed at him return, he finds himself lying on a metal slab. There's a faint burning in the centre of his forehead, though when he tries to raise a hand to feel it he finds that he's far too weak, and his breaths start to come quickly as though his lungs are trying to drink in all the oxygen they can.

He hears something clatter upon the ground and a sharp curse, and out of curiosity The Asset turns his head to see Karpov backed against the wall and looking like he's seen a ghost. A glance in the other direction reveals the other Winter Soldiers lying on tables of their own – still and silent and hooked up to enough tranquiliser to knock out a horse - and something like disappointment finds a home in his chest as he realises that their rebellion must ultimately have been squashed.

"He was dead!" Karpov mutters hysterically behind him, but in his exhaustion The Asset doesn't have the strength to question his words. "I killed him, he was dead..."

The sharp sound of a slap rings throughout the room, and he turns once more to see Karpov crouched on his knees, numbly clutching his cheek while a sharp-suited man stands beside him, far more relaxed than his partner. When the man turns, The Asset vaguely recognises the handler known as Pierce, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest as he takes careful steps forwards.

If Pierce is surprised that he's awake, he doesn't show it, and instead stares calmly down at the creature on the table like he's little more than dirt on his shoe. His silent assessment lasts for what feels like hours while The Asset wills himself to remain emotionless and betray nothing, only taking a breath when Pierce turns, seemingly satisfied.

"Wipe him. We may as well keep him considering the others have failed," he says, his voice growing quieter as he walks away. The Asset doesn't bother watching him leave. "And get over yourself, Karpov. Zola warned us this would happen."

With that, there's the sound of a heavy door being slammed shut, and The Asset is left to ponder the meaning behind his handler's words in silence.

* * *

 **A/N - I hope you've enjoyed these two chapters. I'll try to get the last three up as soon as I can, although uploads might not be as frequent as I'm back at uni tomorrow. It should be finished within the week though :)**

 **As always, thank you for reading this and any feedback is greatly appreciated!**


	7. Chapter 7

It becomes a private game during his time on the run. An attempt to figure out if anyone he encounters has shared experience; _'Spot the Lazarus'_.

Admittedly, it's not a game that ever gives him a solid answer. Most of it is guesswork as he scans the faces of random people on the street and wonders if they've been deemed worthy of crawling back to life, although he doubts there's any way of telling. Those that have returned are unlikely to remember, and he imagines there cannot be many who share his predicament to begin with.

For all he knows, he and Steve are the only ones, yet after all these years he still doesn't know why.

It provides some entertainment during his lonelier months though, to imagine backstories for the people he meets and conjure scenarios in which they might have been brought back. He imagines the barista in the local café spending his gap-year travelling the world only to be bitten by a venomous snake, before waking in a heap of leaves moments later. Or sometimes he'll think of tiny old Maria who runs a shelter for homeless veterans nearby and how, in a previous life or two, she would rob banks with guns blazing, shrugging off a hail of bullets and waking minutes after they hit her.

It's a foolish game to play, but it makes him feel less isolated as he navigates a future he's not entirely familiar with, and considering he's befriended Maria enough by this point to have earned several of her cheeky winks, he imagines there must be something exciting lurking in her past.

That said, in the two years he manages to spend in the shadows, he only meets one person he knows for certain must have returned from death in the same manner he has.

He isn't sure how exactly he knows, but from the instant he lays eyes on a Norwegian crook who calls himself Janove – the man who eventually sets him up with a fake passport and a selection of safehouses across Europe – Bucky knows he has looked death in the eye before. A faraway look is the clearest indicator, which the spectre of guilt has gifted Bucky with as well, but there's also an intensity in the way he holds himself that seems to add ten years to his otherwise handsome face, and though his work as an aid to fugitives trying to start a new life must surely pay well, Janove seems to spend most of his time in the shadows of his modest home. The lack of sunlight has left him pale and his hair is greying before its time, and Bucky wonders if that bitter aura is one he exudes as well.

He doesn't know much about Janove. The man could have died in any manner of ways, from choking on a grape to being murdered during a covert mission back when he was a soldier (Janove may tell him nothing, but Bucky knows that stance only too well).

It hardly matters in the end. Despite his cold manner, Bucky does like the man, so he does them both a favour and keeps his mouth shut.

It isn't until he meets the Avengers in the frantic aftermath of the Vienna bombing that he truly finds himself in the company of kindred spirits. He supposes that makes sense; if anyone's destined to have such an effect on the world that even Death won't risk getting in their way, then surely it's those who have already saved it on multiple occasions.

Steve, he already knows about, though he can't help but wonder if he's met death again in the years they've been separated. He's fairly certain Clint, Wanda and Scott haven't, and the weird spider-kid is a pretty safe bet too considering he can only be six years old, but he suspects Sam and Natasha have encountered death at least once, whether they know it or not. Natasha, especially, has more going on behind the eyes than most people Bucky's met and Sam, for all his wisecracks, seems to be hiding a form of guilt that is only too familiar.

Besides Steve though, the only definite in Bucky's mind is Tony Stark.

The certainty hits him with the same punch to the chest that overwhelmed him when he first met Janove, and in the rare moments where Tony looks towards Bucky rather than aiming all his frustration at Steve, Bucky can see the survivor's guilt buried in brown eyes as clearly as he can see his own in a mirror. It's like, for one bitter moment, he's experiencing Stark's pain and self-loathing over the fact that he continues to survive when so many others are gone, and tearing his eyes away feels like pulling tape from a wound.

He wonders if Stark remembers his death – or hell, _deaths_ \- or whether the guilt that comes with surviving merely clings to his subconscious for reasons he doesn't know. Either way, the look in his eyes is too uncomfortably familiar for Bucky to tolerate for more than a few seconds, and he ends up throwing himself back into the fight in order to wipe the sight from his mind.

The game stops being fun after that.

* * *

The seventh death is the one that almost destroys Steve. It also marks the first time Bucky's able to tell someone about everything that's happened to him, so in retrospect he's not entirely sure how to feel about it.

It feels like someone's poisoned the air in the compound that was once his home. The atmosphere is thick with tension and guilt and rage, with little room for conscious thought, and though Zemo seems to have made his escape while his playthings set about destroying each other, Bucky can still picture the satisfaction on the man's face. He can't think too deeply about that or the brutal footage they've all been forced to watch otherwise he'll break, so instead he thinks of nothing besides staying alive and protecting Steve.

The latter objective is the one that overwhelms him in the end. He sees Steve collapse - whether dazed or unconscious he cannot tell – and before he even has a chance to weigh up his options, he throws himself towards Tony and lets metal fingers curl around the glowing arc reactor. There's little hope of negotiating with Stark when he's fuelled solely by raw pain, but Bucky has no wish to harm him either and instead pours all his efforts into disarming his suit. The Stark family has been shattered enough because of him; he doesn't need to be the one to cause its eradication.

His objective makes him heedless of everything else happening around him, his world narrowed purely to the reactor clinging to the suit's chest, and he doesn't notice Stark struggling to aim a blast his way until he hears the harsh hiss of one going off. The sound startles him enough to throw him backwards, but when all that follows is silence, Bucky starts to think that Tony has missed.

It takes several seconds for the pain to settle in his chest, though even when he does take note of it, it isn't the thing that strikes him most. What hits him is the way Tony stills, metal hand still outstretched, and his face pales as his eyes drop to Bucky's chest. Bucky's gaze follows, childish curiosity overtaking him, but he's less fazed than he should be by the gnarly hole that's formed in his chest. Already the pain seems distant and his mind is growing fuzzy due to the blood that's leaving his body, and he has just enough time to notice something that might be regret colouring Stark's grey face before his knees give out and he feels himself falling backwards.

He's dead before he hits the floor, which is a considerable improvement over his past experiences. One day he might even compliment Tony on that.

It would be a lot more bearable if the last thing he heard wasn't Steve's broken cry though.

When a familiar warmth starts to heat his bones, Bucky closes his eyes in contentment. He's not desperate to stay, regardless of how much easier doing so would be, but the past week has been an exhausting rush considering he's been framed for terrorism, chased across Europe and, well, murdered. It's enough to make anyone want to grab an hour or two of sleep, and he feels himself start to drift into blissful nothingness, only to be awoken with a start when a hand grabs his arm with more urgency than he expects.

He looks into golden eyes and a kind face and starts to smile before he notices the worry marring Death's handsome features; sees the furrow on her brow and a downturn at the corner of her lips. It's such a departure from the usual mellowness she exudes that he finds himself sitting up – all notion of sleep forgotten.

"What's wrong?"

"I need you to come with me," she says without missing a beat, and as if illustrating that he has little say in the matter, the air around them starts to distort and swirl and a pulling sensation has nausea rising in his stomach. Bucky looks around as warm gold makes way for murky white, eventually landing on an imposing grey, and he has to blink a few times in order for the scene before him to focus.

When he finally realises what he's seeing, it feels like someone has stolen the air from his lungs. The biting cold may not be assaulting him anymore, but the Siberian compound remains as grim now as it was when he was solid and alive, and he finds his eyes being drawn to the body lying on unforgiving concrete.

He's struck by the fact that this is the first time he's witnessing his death from this perspective, although seeing himself so broken makes him hope he never sees it again. His landing must have been inelegant, judging by the way his legs are awkwardly bent at the knee and his arms are splayed as if reaching for something he'll never touch. There's more blood than he expects, although he'd likely been buried too deeply in shock to fully appreciate his wound before it had killed him, and most of it seems to be on the floor if the ghostly white of his face is any indication.

His eyes are closed, although he doesn't remember having had the awareness to do that himself.

That must have been Steve's doing.

Bucky's grateful; he's seen the glassy stares of dead men enough times to know he'd rather not see his own.

So lost is he in the image of his lifeless form on the floor that it takes Death's gentle hand on his arm to tear his attention away, first towards her and then towards the commotion she's focussed on. It's only then that he finally takes in the sight of Steve and Tony caught in a vicious battle. Steve throws all his strength into striking Stark down with animalistic ferocity, his shield screeching as it crashes against metal, and Tony retaliates with all the conviction of a man who's already given up. The way things are going, Steve is going to come back to himself only to find that he's lost one friend and killed another, and Bucky knows that such a realisation will destroy him completely.

He feels dread creep into his mind like a parasite - a vision of Zemo's victory making itself at home - and he turns to the woman at his side without bothering to hide the raw panic that's threatening to consume him. "What can I do?"

"You can do what you've always done," she says, giving him a weak smile before placing a hand over his heart and lighting a warm fire in his chest. "You can stop him from doing something stupid."

The force that comes with being thrown back to earth hits him like a tonne of bricks this time around, and he gasps as air returns to his lungs. His hands scramble over his chest, feeling for the hole that was there mere seconds ago but finding only unbroken flesh, and he throws his head against the ground and closes his eyes for as long as he dares before urgent responsibility grips his heart.

He opens his eyes again and groans, the pain from the wound that killed him still raw, before curling on his side and looking up to assess the damage. Metal clashing against metal overwhelms his ears, making his head throb, and he freezes when he sees Steve gain the upper hand; throwing Stark onto his back and straddling him, mindless, before lifting the shield.

Bucky tries to say Steve's name, but the word escapes as little more than a choked gasp that goes unnoticed over the turmoil, and he has to take in several hurried breaths before finally managing a desperate "Steve!"

Everything stops. Time draws to a halt as Steve freezes, shield still raised while Tony's hands remain held over his face, and for a long moment Bucky can hear nothing but the howling wind. It seems to take an age for Steve to turn his way, his eyes wet and expression marred with disbelief, and Tony follows suit as both pairs of eyes become fixed on the man lying barely feet away from them. Bucky tries not to notice the cold horror on Stark's face and instead focusses on preventing Steve from doing something he'll inevitably regret.

"You can stop now."

The words sound weak when said aloud, but they're enough to have Steve clambering off Tony and backing against a wall, his breaths coming faster than usual. He doesn't look away from Bucky for a long time, seeming to scan every inch of his body as if afraid that it'll shatter all over again, and when the intensity in his eyes starts to become overwhelming, Bucky turns his attention back to Stark.

The horror that had gripped the man upon his prey surviving the impossible seems to have vanished, leaving only exhaustion, and though Bucky can't be sure, he thinks Tony understands what's going on enough to have simply stopped caring. Either that, or the insanity of the past week has finally taken its toll on him as much as it has everyone else.

They make a sorry lot; these three dead men. Bucky would laugh if he wasn't so tired.

Satisfied that Stark is alive, if not entirely well, Bucky returns his attention to Steve and throws what he hopes is a reassuring smile his way. It has exactly as little effect as he expects it to, but it seems to be enough to have Steve struggling to his feet and making his way over before reaching out a hand and helping Bucky up. The support makes Bucky grateful, as standing is enough to inform him that his legs have turned to water, and he leans on Steve's shoulder as exhaustion sweeps over him, threatening to claim him before he can take a single step. He thinks Tony says something, though he couldn't listen even if he tried, but the words seem to have little impact as Steve starts taking careful steps forwards, dragging Bucky along with him.

The walk to the quinjet is relatively uneventful if you discount them running into the King of Wakanda, who suddenly doesn't want Bucky dead (which is nice, considering dying twice in the same day isn't something he's keen to try) and has managed to capture Zemo with the intention of sending him to Berlin to rot in a cage. Bucky aims for solemnity when he tells T'Challa that he forgives him for everything, although he probably has all the dignity of a tired drunk, but he chooses to tune out of any further conversations between the King and Steve in favour of resting his eyes. He's so tired and cold and achy that all he wants to do is sleep, though when he feels Steve start to move again and sees the fixed determination on his face, he imagines he'll have a fair share of explaining to do first.

Those predictions turn out to be correct. He manages to claim ten minutes of peace as Steve starts up the jet, taking control during their ascension into the clouds, before the auto-pilot is turned on and he starts pacing the length of the aircraft. It takes a while for him to say anything, though even with his eyes closed Bucky can read everything Steve wants to ask. He starts to wonder if the interrogation will ever occur, until the pacing finally stops and he opens his eyes to see Steve kneeling before him, trying to appear stoic even as the raw grief from earlier threatens to spill over.

"What was that?" he asks, the words breaking as a silent tear finally slips down his face. "You were… You were _gone_ and now… now you're…"

Words fail him and he simply gestures to Bucky as if that's explanation enough. He was dead and now he's not and it makes no sense, and yet somehow this has become Bucky's reality to the point where it feels normal. He's not even sure how to begin explaining everything without sounding like a madman, but he knows it would be unfair to give Steve nothing.

"I'll tell you everything I know," he says eventually, and Steve's eyes lift in anticipation. "But it's going to sound mad."

"I don't care," Steve says without hesitation, and Bucky can do little but sigh. "Tell me."

So he does.

He tells Steve about the very first time they met, where he somehow recovered from a head-wound that should have killed him. He tells him about the war and the capture of the 107th and how he'd started to realise that he was surviving things that would kill most men and emerging without so much as a scar. He tells him of the fall and of meeting Death, as he's come to know her, and how kind she's always been despite the frustration she causes when she skirts around why he keeps being sent back. He tells him about Hydra and how most of his superiors had known what he was capable of, to the point where the one time they actually decided to execute him he'd simply woken up hours later, as ready for the next mission as always.

Bucky refrains from telling Steve that Death has met him too, nor does he mention Janove or even Tony. He thinks he's dropped enough madness on Steve's lap without adding another mountain to the pile.

When he's finally able to stop speaking, his throat burning from overuse, he looks up to see that Steve is utterly stunned. Silent minutes drag onwards, with Steve opening his mouth to speak several times before deciding there's nothing to be said, and though Bucky would like something to break the awkwardness, he's happy to indulge in not having to explain anything more for a while.

"That's…" Steve starts, a small smile betraying his disbelief. "That's insane."

"You don't need to tell me that," Bucky says, but despite everything he finds himself laughing. Relief grips him in a warm embrace when Steve joins in, though he falls silent again moments later. It's difficult to mind the quiet, however, when the ice has finally been broken and some of the tension has faded away.

"You… you're okay, though?" Steve asks eventually, cautious as if still expecting the answer to be 'no' and for Bucky to fade away all over again. Bucky wonders if the words are for his benefit or if they're a way for Steve to reassure himself. "You're still here."

"Still here," Bucky assures him, reaching out to take Steve's hand before pressing it over his chest. The leather of his suit is a ruined, charred mess but the skin underneath is whole and his heart beats beneath Steve's palm, a calming rhythm that was horribly silent hours earlier. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Steve nods, his eyes watering again as he lets his hand rest over Bucky's heart just a little longer, before he raises his eyes to take in Bucky's own. "You're really here. You're… oh god!"

He reaches out and grips Bucky in a crushing hug without warning, burying his face in the crook of his neck, but despite his initial surprise, Bucky doesn't mind. He wraps his own arms around Steve, feeling him tremble as broken sobs finally come forth, and he starts whispering comforting nothings as a constant reminder that he's still there. Besides the humming of the quinjet making its way towards Wakanda, there's little sound for what feels like hours and Bucky drinks in the silence, taking advantage of the peace and the weight in his arms that was once so familiar. He may not know what will happen from this point, but he knows he can face anything now that he's no longer alone.

They remain holding each other long after Steve has calmed, and Bucky allows himself to be content as Siberia grows ever-smaller behind them.

* * *

 ***shamelessly recycles Maria and Janove from a previous story***

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter, though I have to admit it ran away from me a little. Thank you so much for reading this and for all of your feedback so far!**

 **A note about Tony: my original thought was that his 'death' here would have been due to falling through the portal in The Avengers, but considering how many times he's nearly died throughout the movies, there have probably been several more occasions beyond that :P**


	8. Chapter 8

Wakanda is more beautiful than Bucky could have imagined.

The view from his guest suite is rich with sprawling green forests interrupted by the towering skyscrapers of the nearby city, and in the evenings when the sun becomes a red line on the horizon, the silhouettes of jagged mountains can be seen in the distance. Ferocious statues depicting their king's namesake guard the palace as surely as the Dora Milaje, and Bucky has wasted many hours watching the sun gleam on the panthers' faces since his awakening.

The world beyond the window is one he has yet to set foot in, as he half-expects the triggers in his head to be activated the minute he's close to a civilian. That hasn't stopped him from making a habit of staring out longingly, though, awaiting the day where he can take Sam up on his many offers of a tour around the grounds.

For all the activity that comes with a country adapting to a new ruler, Bucky has found the palace to be strangely calm during his stay. He sees Sam, Wanda and Nat regularly enough – often giving into their demands to join them on movie-nights – but it's been a while since he's seen their host in person, so caught up is he in political matters, and Steve too is more absent than Bucky would like. That's hardly his fault, considering his absences are often related to sorting out the mess left in the wake of the Accords, as well as trying to keep his friends safe, but Bucky can't deny that he misses Steve when he isn't there.

That said, he finds that being alone is no longer as disquieting as it once was. Instead of loneliness being an invitation for guilt and twisted memories to worm their way into his brain, he's starting to learn how to indulge in having time to himself without it leading to self-torture.

Some days, he'll sit by the open window in the guest lounge and watch as the Dora Milaje train in the court below, feeling the warm breeze brush against his face. On others, he'll explore the depths of his new home; stumbling upon vast ballrooms and galleries and, hidden in a quiet corner of the palace, a library filled floor-to-ceiling with books written in languages from all over the world. It's here that he finds himself most often, due to it being a guaranteed safe space to calm the more frantic thoughts in his head. He'll let his fingers trail along the spines of books even older than he is as he scans the shelves, before taking his chosen pile over to the large, circular window which brightens the entire room.

Interruptions occur so rarely that he finds himself jumping when a shadow crosses over the words on the page, and his surprise only grows when he looks up into the eyes of the king himself. Bucky knows he shouldn't be too shocked to see T'Challa standing in his own home, but it still takes him a while to stop gaping and move along the windowsill to allow the man to take a seat. Such a reaction must be a common occurrence of late, if the amused smirk that flashes across the king's face is any indication.

"I used to do the same when I was a boy," T'Challa says, nodding towards Bucky curled on the windowsill with a mountain of books by his side. "This room was my haven every time responsibility came calling."

Bucky smiles, surprised that T'Challa is sharing memories with him rather than justifiably chasing him away from said haven. He can't help but wonder if T'Challa is here now for the same reasons he came as a child; whether the pressures of being king have demanded he spend a few hours hidden away in peace.

His stay in the Wakandan palace may have provided temporary respite, but Bucky hasn't been ignorant of the issues occurring beyond its walls. T'Challa has been called away to countless meetings concerning the finalisation of the Accords during his first months as King, and when he is able to spend time at home, he faces constant challenges from political opponents who can't comprehend their leader forming an alliance with American fugitives.

For the most part, Bucky knows that T'Challa is as beloved by his people as his father was, but that likely doesn't stop the bitter accusations from his challengers from taking a toll on his mind.

An all-too familiar guilt settles over Bucky as he takes in the tired lines beneath T'Challa's eyes, but he forces it down and turns his attention to the window, watching the moonlight cast ghostly shadows among the trees.

"You're learning Wakandan?" T'Challa asks eventually, breaking Bucky from his stupor and causing his eyes to fall to the open book resting on his lap.

"Oh, yeah," he replies, suddenly sheepish, though when he looks back up to T'Challa the man almost seems impressed. "Well, I'm trying to anyway. It's pretty different to the other languages I've learned, but I've just about mastered how to say 'hello' and 'thank you'."

T'Challa laughs, the sound warm as it echoes in the cool moonlight glow, and Bucky can't help but smile too. "I imagine languages must be second nature to you by now."

Bucky can only shrug. It's true that over the years he's become proficient in several languages, with his German dating back to his military training and Russian having practically been programmed into him throughout the entirety of the 50s, but he's found that he enjoys taking the opportunity to learn more. His time on the run encouraged him to pick up some Norwegian and Czech and Romanian as he travelled across Europe, if only to make him feel less like an outsider, and it's a hobby that seems to have stuck with him.

Also, he's found that it's rather useful to know how to swear in a variety of tongues whenever he finds himself being framed for a terrorist attack in Vienna and has to deal with armed guards kicking down his door.

"I used to hate learning new languages," T'Challa says, his face turning towards the window as he lets himself be lost to his memories. "My father insisted I learn English and French from a young age, even teaching me himself when I struggled. It didn't make sense to me, why I should learn other languages when Wakanda seemed so separate from the rest of the world, but my father always said I'd thank him one day."

"And did you?" Bucky asks, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt that comes at the mention of T'Chaka. He may not have been responsible for the man's death, but he can't help but wonder if Vienna would have happened if the mantle of Winter Soldier hadn't been there for Zemo to exploit.

If T'Challa notices the way his face drops, he doesn't mention it.

"Oh yes," the king says with a soft smile, before turning to face Bucky again. With the smile playing on his lips and the moonlight drifting across his face, he suddenly seems five years younger. "Attending political conferences is tedious enough without me needing a translator present."

That draws another laugh out of Bucky, and it strikes him just how easy slipping into a conversation with T'Challa has become, especially considering the messy start to their relationship. It's strangely easy to forgive the man for his vengeance-fuelled rampage against him all those months ago, especially as he seems to have gained years-worth of wisdom in that time, and Bucky can't help but wonder if the man will ever evolve from being his protector to being his friend. He certainly hopes so.

"Hey," T'Challa says, once more gesturing to the book in Bucky's lap while failing to hold back a cunning smirk. "If you're really interested in learning Wakandan, there are a few insults I could teach you. So long as you don't go around telling people where you learned them, of course."

His smirk becomes mirrored on Bucky's face, and the fact that he's seeing the man beneath the mantle of king so clearly feels like a privilege he hasn't yet earned. "I promise I'll keep my mouth shut then."

The moment of quiet that follows doesn't last, though Bucky wishes it would. He thinks T'Challa opens his mouth to speak, but he's interrupted by a sudden, wailing alarm that seems to pierce Bucky's ears, and blinking red lights shatter the darkness. He rises to his feet, fists clenched out of instinct, and one look to his left shows that T'Challa is frozen in the same stance.

"What the hell is that?" Bucky asks, his words in danger of being drowned out by the persistent blaring.

"It's the intruder alert," T'Challa responds, his brow furrowed in concern. Bucky finds himself wondering what sort of intruders could possibly be capable of breaking into what's supposed to be the safest building in Wakanda.

He doesn't mistake the way his heart seems to leap into his throat as T'Challa turns to him with severity marking his features. "I won't force you to come with me, but if this is what I think it is, we might need all the help we can get."

"I've seen the Dora Milaje fight; you'd probably be fine without me," Bucky jokes, but despite his words, a smile forms and he feels the anticipation of a fight burning within him. As if reading his mind, T'Challa nods and returns the smile, and they both head out of the library and into the corridors beyond.

There's little indication of where the commotion is taking place at first, and no matter where they run, the alarm continues its piercing screech. It's only when they find themselves heading towards the heart of the palace that the music of guards yelling orders finally manages to break through the noise, luring them onwards. The cause of the palace's awakening seems to be centred within the atrium that greets all visitors, and as Bucky and T'Challa draw to a halt on the overlooking balcony, the source of the alarm finally becomes evident.

A gaping hole surrounded by rubble has appeared where there were once immaculately carved doors, and just beyond, Bucky can see the still forms of two guards strewn on the porch. Their many attackers are dressed head-to-toe in black with any identifying features concealed, and are currently locked in battle with the Dora Milaje who have already arrived. The glint of blades flashing among flickering red and the screech of metal striking metal has Bucky cringing, and it hits him that despite their willingness to fight, both he and T'Challa are woefully unarmed and unprotected.

That's less of a problem for him, considering he seems to be in the habit of walking off minor injuries such as death, but the man at his side may not be so lucky.

All it takes is a short, resigned nod from T'Challa for Bucky to know that this is a fight he's going to leap into with or without protection. A quick survey of the atrium below shows the Dora Milaje, lead by Okoye, making quick work of ensuring their intruders don't get a chance to venture further into the palace, but Bucky knows T'Challa would never abandon them at a time like this just for the sake of his own safety.

Without a word, they both rush down the stairs as fast as their legs will carry them. They're accosted en-route by Ayo, who arms her king with a blade stolen from a fallen intruder before staring at Bucky for long seconds which feel like hours. He must pass her silent assessment, however, for she eventually nods at him and makes her way down the rest of the stairs, stopping only to throw an approaching attacker over the bannister in a one-armed manoeuvre.

It takes only seconds for Bucky and T'Challa to join the fray. The darkness - besides the flashing red light - makes fighting difficult, with their opponents blending in thanks to their all-black attire, and in the end he ends up following the sounds of clashing metal rather than his limited vision. Not that that's much easier, seeing as the still-blaring alarm ensures that the blades only become audible when they're seconds away from taking his head off.

One nameless attacker latches himself onto Bucky as soon as his feet hit the atrium floor, the glint of his blade cutting through the air with a whistle, but Bucky reaches out on instinct and grips the descending blade with a metal fist. Before the man can acknowledge what's happened, Bucky yanks the weapon out of his hands and lands a solid kick to the centre of his chest, sending him flying into the wall with a satisfying crash. Unfortunately, there's barely any time to celebrate before Bucky's caught up in another altercation.

He can't tell how many attackers they're still dealing with. The twenty or so he sees may not even be the only ones left; for all he knows there are battles like this taking place all over the palace. The alarm continues its dying screech, drowning out the sounds of battle around him, while red lights dance over the faces of friend or foe, making everyone in the room seem ethereal. The Dora Milaje fight as if doing so is as natural as breathing, their movements fluid and calculated compared with the random brutality of the masked intruders, and amongst them T'Challa fights with the same level of grace despite wearing only a casual suit. Bucky doesn't bother hiding his admiration for the man or his guards, even as he lands a brutal punch to the face of an assailant.

Much as he hates to admit it, he's missed this. The thrill of a fight is an addicting one, even with the worry that he'll be reactivated at any moment.

A chance look towards the door shows another assailant wandering into the fray. The man is masked in much the same way as his comrades, but the blade he wields is far more impressive than any Bucky has had to deflect so far. One good swing could likely split a man in half, and though its wielder doesn't seem quite strong enough to pull off such a feat, Bucky doesn't doubt that he intends to cause a great deal of damage.

For the moment, however, he's not Bucky's problem. He lets himself be reassured as the new arrival is accosted by Ayo and Nakia, before concerning himself with the assailants in his immediate vicinity. Without a thought, he pulls an attacker off a guard whose name he doesn't know, checking just long enough to ensure she's unhurt before incapacitating the man in his arms with a single punch. He thinks he feels something crack under his fist but he can't bring himself to care, and he turns to assess the scene only to find himself face to face with T'Challa.

Blood is smeared on the left side of the king's face, but closer inspection is enough to assure Bucky that it's not the man's own. Besides an unmistakeably tired smile, there's nothing to indicate that T'Challa's any worse for wear, and relief floods through Bucky's veins like fire.

"This an average Saturday night around here?" he jokes loudly, missing T'Challa's immediate response in favour of ducking out of the way of a slashing blade and making quick work of its wielder. When he looks back to the king, however, he can't mistake the amused glint in his dark eyes.

"Not quite," he responds, a playful smirk on his face. His expression hardens quickly enough though, when their attention is brought back to the exploded remains of the palace entrance.

"They should not have been able to make it this far."

The knowledge that the man is right settles uncomfortably in Bucky's mind. The palace grounds are shielded by wrought-iron gates and patrolled by guards day and night, with security cameras in place to capture every inch of land. Their assailants should have been stopped, or noticed at the very least, before they even reached the building.

"They won't get any further," Bucky responds. He wastes just enough time to notice T'Challa's response in the form of a determined nod, before they both jump back into the fray. The number of opponents has significantly lessened in the past minutes, but the sight of the odd guard lying either unconscious or dead beside the bodies of their enemies has unease chilling Bucky's spine.

A startled cry has his head whirling towards its source, and he finds himself looking into the face of one of the attackers, his mask having been pulled free. The fierce blade in his hand tells Bucky he must be their most recent arrival, and though he can't recall ever meeting the man, his face seems oddly familiar. One look towards Ayo – who still has his black mask clutched in her hand – tells him that she recognises him too.

It hits him eventually. The man has been one of T'Challa's most prominent adversaries ever since word of the fugitive Avengers got out, with his repeated challenges and extreme political stances over the past months earning him the nickname 'Killmonger' courtesy of Ayo.

It seems he's set on earning that title.

Bucky tries to find T'Challa among the fighting bodies, but when he does find him, he's caught in battle with a masked assailant – too busy to notice the new developments. He also doesn't notice Killmonger managing to disarm Ayo and throw her aside, before stalking over to his king like a tiger would its prey, his face hard as stone.

Time seems to slow as Bucky looks from the approaching threat to T'Challa and weighs his options.

In the end, there's only one. T'Challa hasn't noticed Killmonger coming towards him; even if he did, he's too busy trying not to get killed by the faceless attacker he's fighting to do anything about it. Bucky could yell at him, but he's unlikely to be heard over the commotion, and it might end up distracting the king at a crucial moment.

Between himself and T'Challa, there's a clear winner in terms of importance, which is why he finds himself jumping in front of the king at the last minute.

Just in time to feel the steel bite of a blade pierce his stomach.

Bucky just about manages to contain his scream and reaches out to grab the hilt of the sword before Killmonger can yank it out of him, and with his last ounce of strength he takes advantage of the man's confusion by landing a solid punch to his face with a metal fist. The action has the desired effect of forcing him to let go of the blade before falling back, stunned, and Bucky indulges in satisfaction for one wonderful moment before sickening pain has him collapsing to the floor.

He's caught in strong arms before he can land, but the impact sends pain shooting throughout his body regardless and he doesn't bother holding back his cries this time. The blade is through-and-through; he can feel the burn where it's cleanly sliced through his back, and though every instinct screams at him to tear it out, he's stopped by firm hands before he can even try. He hears frantic yelling from somewhere above him, and it's only then that he looks up to the face of the person holding him.

It's perhaps more surprising than it should be to see T'Challa's face looking back at him, not bothering to hide his worry behind a trained mask.

It must really be bad then.

Bucky looks down, trying to assess his condition even when a soft hand against his face forces him to keep looking up. He sees enough though; sees the hilt protruding from just below his ribs in the dead-centre of his abdomen. At least one of his major blood vessels is likely to be damaged and, judging by the growing weakness in his legs, his spine's probably involved on some level as well, which means he's looking at two outcomes.

One, he dies in pain hours from now despite the best efforts of the palace medics, or two, he spares himself some pain and quickens the process. Neither option is appealing, but in the end, he knows which one to choose.

He watches T'Challa silently as the man recites first-aid advice to someone Bucky can't see, before looking down and smiling in a manner that is wholly unconvincing. "You're going to be okay. There will be doctors here soon, I promise."

Bucky doesn't doubt his sincerity, but he knows deep down that he isn't going to live that long. Part of him wants to explain that it's okay and that he'll be probably be back before anyone's even started to miss him, but everything hurts too terribly to form a coherent sentence and even if he could explain, his words would likely be put down to the delirium of a dying man.

In the end, he simply settles for putting across what's important.

"Steve…" he gasps, his chest shuddering with pain at the movement. Bone-deep exhaustion is slipping in already, threatening to claim him before he can say another word, but he fights it with all the strength he has left. "Haf'ta tell Steve. He'll know what to do…"

"I'll tell him," T'Challa says with a sincerity that Bucky now knows well, and in spite of his agony he smiles. "But you're going to be fine, you hear me? I promised to keep you safe and I intend to keep it."

Bucky doesn't doubt that. The guilt at just how cruel his next actions will be to the man who has done so much for him over the past few months is almost enough to change his mind, but in the end the need for the pain to stop takes over. While his eyes remain focussed on T'Challa, his hands wander down to the hilt of the blade, and before anyone can stop him, he pulls it free from his body.

The first moments are enough to convince him that doing so was a mistake. His world becomes narrowed down to pain and fire; his wound screaming in protest as nerves delight in transmitting yet more pain, and blood which was once contained starts to flow with abandon. He must be screaming, if T'Challa's frantic shushing is any indication, and when awareness finally creeps back to him, he can see raw horror on the man's face. Again, a need to reassure him emerges, but he finds he no longer has the breath to talk. All that's left for him to do is listen to T'Challa whispering comforting nothings while his hands frantically press on the open wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

It won't be enough. Bucky remembers this sensation of light-headedness from several times before, and as if someone's decided to take mercy on him, the pain starts to fade only to be replaced with a deep exhaustion. Drawing in air starts feeling like too much work, so he simply stops trying and instead uses the last of his strength to focus on the man at his side.

There's an odd comfort to be found in being held in T'Challa's strong arms, and Bucky realises through a wave of pain that this is the only time he can remember not being utterly alone as he dies. He reaches down to cover the king's hand with his own and manages to mouth 'Thank you' in the hope that he'll be understood.

If T'Challa responds, Bucky doesn't live to see it.

* * *

"So what actually happens after death?"

His question elicits a warm laugh from the woman sitting by his side, and when Bucky casts a sideways glance towards her, he finds her eyes crinkling with a carefree joy she hasn't worn in a while.

Their reunion this time around has been calmer from the offset, ever since she greeted him with a mock-sigh and a "Back again already?" that had him laughing despite the pain that had swallowed him seconds before. Since then, they've been content with simply sitting together in silence, letting the warm glow of their surroundings wash over them as if they have all the time in the world. Even Death seems more relaxed than usual, with her silky dress now a delicate blue that reminds Bucky of summer skies and her wavy black hair arranged in a neat updo. If it wasn't for her ethereal beauty she could almost come across as an average human, albeit one who would turn many heads on the street.

"You're only thinking to ask that now?" she asks, amused, and Bucky can do little but shrug in response. "Most ask that before all else."

"What can I say? I must have been preoccupied before."

True enough, whenever he's been here before, their interactions have either been deeply urgent or filled with confusion on his part. He's always been looking back the way he came and wondering when he'll be unceremoniously dropped back; it's only now that he has some time to breathe that he's truly curious about what will eventually lie ahead.

Also, as confident as he was that he'd be brought back to life when he was dying in T'Challa's arms, he's been less certain of that ever since. He's pretty sure dying to save a beloved king has the potential to qualify as a divine purpose in life, although if that were the case then he's pretty sure fate or whoever decides this stuff could have chosen a more suitable candidate than some kid from Brooklyn.

Bucky thinks he sees Death smirk as those thoughts run through his head, but she doesn't say anything to confirm or deny his musings. When she does speak, it's more in reference to his previous question.

"I couldn't tell you what happens after this," she admits, turning to Bucky with a solemnity that appears genuine. "In the end, it's different for everyone. Your king, for instance, may spend eternity running through the green veld with his family, but I will have no say in that when his time comes. My role is simply to take you to whatever awaits."

"That must make me a nightmare for you," Bucky mutters under his breath, although predictably she hears him.

"Not exactly," she laughs. "Humans tend to spend a long time here, waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Despite the frequency with which you happen to show up, you've only really been here for a few days in total. Maybe even less."

"So waiting's an option?" he asks, suddenly fixed on her words as if someone has thrust them in front of his face. He's not sure why it hasn't occurred to him before. Part of him always assumed that he'd be hurried along to wherever awaited him as soon as his time was finally up; the idea that he might be able to stay and wait for Steve and Sam and everyone else he cares about is one that he hasn't dared dwell on, for fear that he'll be proven wrong.

"Oh yes," she replies, looking out to the endless sea of gold as a sad smile tugs at her lips. "Many find it easier not to go on alone."

Bucky thinks of all the people she must have met in all her different forms; how many she must have come to know and maybe even grown to love before having to say goodbye to them forever. One day he too will be just another lost face among many. No matter how long he spends waiting for Steve, the day will come when he has to say goodbye and move on as well.

It's the first time he realises that, for all her beauty and warmth, her existence must often be a sad one.

Perhaps in response to this realisation, he spends a few more hours just basking in warm silence with her. As time passes, the warm golds seem to darken to oranges and reds, as if mimicking a sunset, and if Bucky closes his eyes he can almost imagine he is watching the sun go down by the sea. When he opens them again to find that the familiar golds have returned, he takes a deep breath before turning to the woman at his side.

"I think I'm ready to go back."

She gives him a single nod before reaching a delicate hand to the place where his wound must lie back on earth, sending a wave of heat throughout his body as it heals. He closes his eyes as she does so, focussing solely on the pleasant burn of her touch, and waits for the warmth and light to melt away.

* * *

When he wakes, he does so with the exhaustion of someone who hasn't slept for days. His eyes crawl open sluggishly, cringing against what little light assaults them, and for several moments he simply lets his head rest against the soft pillow beneath him. It's not often that he finds himself in a comfortable bed after having been thrown back to earth; he has no intention of wasting the moment.

Awareness comes back to him slowly as he dozes among soft sheets. There's a soft humming in the background which is reminiscent of his days in the medical bay, and a warm hand is curled tightly around his own. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it belongs to, and he gives it a light squeeze before attempting to properly wake up.

He's rewarded for his efforts by the sight of an exhausted Steve - whose bright smile at seeing Bucky awake isn't quite enough to distract from the redness in his eyes - and he lets himself become boneless as Steve's other hand comes up to brush strands of hair away from his face.

"Hey," Bucky says, the word coming out as a slur as if he's merely been sleeping off a hangover. His impression of a tired drunk elicits a quiet laugh from Steve though, which is always nice to see, so Bucky doesn't mind too much.

"Hey yourself," Steve says, clutching his hand slightly tighter. It isn't lost on Bucky that the warm smile that offered him comfort mere seconds ago fails to meet Steve's eyes, and that it dies a lot quicker than it should.

Deciding that waking up properly would probably be a good idea, Bucky sits up with a groan and lets his back rest against the headboard, clenching his eyes shut as the movement brings a wave of dizziness. It's odd; he's not usually this much of a mess after waking up. He looks around the ward he seems to have been kept since being rudely killed, searching for any indicator of how long it's been, but the white room is as timeless as always with not even a clock to guide him. The curtains have been drawn so he assumes it's night, but then again, that could just be to grant him privacy.

"How long?" he asks eventually, any specifics of that question dying in his throat before he can say them, and again he's forced to notice the manner in which Steve's face drops.

"Two days," Steve replies, more stoically than he likely intends. A silent moment passes in which Bucky wonders if his friend has misspoken, before guilt starts to rise within him at the implications.

The times Steve has witnessed him die before, both knowingly and not, he'd been back on his feet and breathing within minutes.

One day must have been enough to make him consider giving up on waiting, never mind two.

"I'm sorry," Bucky breathes, so quietly he doubts Steve can even hear it. "I didn't mean to scare you like that, I'm sorry-"

"No Buck, don't…" Steve says, bringing a hand up to Bucky's face once more and brushing through his hair as if lulling a child to sleep. His expression has softened, the crushing fear from earlier starting to fade before Bucky's eyes, and though it does little to quieten his guilt, his heart starts to quieten within his chest. "You came back and you're here now. That's all that matters."

Bucky wishes that were true. He knows that Steve would probably give anything not to experience this again, and though that seems inevitable considering his time is sure to come eventually, Bucky silently vows to be slightly more careful in future. Slightly.

It's a while before either of them speak again. Not that he minds; it's been so long since he and Steve were able to simply enjoy being in each other's presence that he's half-tempted to simply drift off to sleep using his friend's breathing as a lullaby. At the back of his mind, worry over the events of two days ago start to claw their way into his thoughts, but he pushes them away for now. The fact that T'Challa was able to contact Steve, not to mention the fact that they're currently resting in the palace medical-bay, is evidence enough that the attackers' mission was a failure. There's small comfort to be found in that; Bucky can't help but hope that Killmonger was sent running with his tail between his legs.

The mental image is enough to force a smile out of him, and he looks up to Steve again to find that the smile is returned. The man looks worn-out, but then, Bucky imagines they both do.

"D'you think it'd be cruel of me to sneak up on T'Challa right about now?" he asks, indulging in a victorious grin when Steve lets loose a bark of laughter. He quickly quietens, probably for the benefit of any other patients in the bay, before shrugging sheepishly.

"I think you'd give the poor guy a heart attack, so yes," he replies, and Bucky is forced to agree. At some point, T'Challa's going to have to see that he's not as permanently dead as he must have seemed, but that should probably happen after an in-depth conversation with Steve. Besides, Bucky still needs to thank him for being there and actually giving a damn when he was dying, and he'd much rather do that when they're all on the same page.

As they slip into peace again, it becomes impossible to stay awake. The comfort provided by the soft sheets, alongside Steve's warm presence, are enough to drown out the faint, fiery ache that rests just below his ribs, and he doesn't take his eyes off Steve even as he slowly feels himself surrendering to sleep.

"You can rest," Steve says, likely having noticed Bucky fighting to keep his eyes open. "I'll be here when you wake up."

That's the only promise he needs to hear before blissful unconsciousness swallows him whole.

* * *

 **And I thought the last chapter ran away with me... I hope you enjoyed this, despite it being so long. Hopefully the last chapter will be up by the end of this weekend or the beginning of next week :)**

 **As always, thank you for reading and for all of your feedback!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N - Sorry for the slight delay. My aim was to finish this story by the weekend, but unfortunately I had some reports to write for uni which ultimately took priority.**

 **Also, because I am apparently incapable of sticking to a pre-planned story length, I've split what was going to be a complete chapter nine into two parts. The last part is written and should be up soon, but I found while writing that they seem to work better separately rather than as an overlong whole.**

 **That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks for all of your feedback so far; it really means a lot :)**

* * *

T'Challa's reaction to seeing that the man who died in his arms is alive and well is closer to exhausted indifference than shock. A combination of the numerous explanations from Steve along with the more important matter of dealing with the attack on his home has likely softened the blow, and when he does appear at the door of the ward in which Bucky is staying, he freezes for only a moment before stepping forwards with a weak smile on his tired face.

"You're looking…better," he says, an amused smirk quirking his lips, though Bucky knows him well enough by this point to see that the humour doesn't reach his eyes. It's only been three days since everything went to shit after all, and they're both still dealing with the effects.

"Hmm," is Bucky's dignified response to T'Challa's greeting, as he tries to sit up. Exhaustion still clings to his bones even after twelve hours of sleep, and he's starting to think he let himself stay dead for far too long this time around. "I imagine that's not difficult."

"Fair point," T'Challa says with a small shrug, somehow managing to make even that look elegant, before settling down in the abandoned chair by the bed. Steve and the rest of the Avengers are currently offering their services in helping the Dora Milaje clear up the mess and providing extra security; something Bucky intends to do as soon as he's back on his feet.

T'Challa sits in silence for a few moments, letting the hum of machines fill the room, but Bucky hardly minds. Silent company is better than none, and besides, he doubts he wants to hear what the King has to say.

"I…" T'Challa huffs a laugh before bringing a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the memories of the last few days. Seeing him up close is enough to reveal the bags under his eyes, and Bucky wonders if he's been able to get any sleep since the attack. Somehow, he doubts it. "I need to thank you for everything you did that night. I never thought I'd get the chance to say it, but here we are."

"You don't need to-" Bucky starts, but the stern expression on T'Challa's face is enough to silence that line of thinking. "I only mean…It wasn't just me."

"I know," T'Challa says, solemnity beyond his years lurking behind his eyes. As if the sight of Bucky on the bed burns him, he looks towards the bare wall at his side, a muscle in his jaw clenching. "I lost good friends that night. People I'll never be able to thank. And you… I watched you die in my place, in spite of my promise to protect you."

The words sound like an accusation, whether T'Challa intends them to or not. Bucky's reminded of the lingering pain in Steve's eyes when he'd first woken up, and feels buried guilt re-emerge at the knowledge that he is no longer the only one who gets hurt whenever he's killed.

It's almost enough to make him miss the old days of dying alone.

If T'Challa notices the guilt threatening to consume Bucky, he doesn't mention it. Instead he simply straightens in his chair and hides his own pain behind a smile.

"The gods have given me a second chance with you, Barnes. I do not intend to waste it. So thank you. For my life, thank you."

Bucky nods in silent acceptance. It's all he can do. For a moment, it's as though the weight of expectation and responsibility and guilt that rests upon T'Challa's shoulders is threatening to smother him as well, but the moment breaks as the King rises to his feet. The exhaustion which laces his words vanishes as if behind a curtain, and he gives Bucky a small smile before excusing himself from the room, leaving behind only silence.

Bucky should have said something, he knows, but his tongue feels heavy and he knows that nothing he can say will be sufficient. There'll be time for heartfelt speeches later, once he's gotten around to figuring out what exactly to say to the man he was so willing to die for, but for now all he wants to do is sleep.

Perhaps Steve will be back by the time he wakes up.

* * *

In the weeks following the attack and Bucky's eventual return to something resembling a normal routine, more details of that fateful night start to crawl out of the woodwork.

Erik 'Killmonger' – the leader of the operation – has vanished into thin air. Half of Bucky can only think 'good riddance' while the other half is buried in unease, anticipating a second attack which seems inevitable. Although, given the manpower the man was forced to recruit the first time around, perhaps the second is a long way ahead of them yet.

The instigators who allowed the assailants to reach the palace – three of T'Challa's supposedly loyal advisors, who'd sworn to protect him from birth yet were easily swayed by the promise of a handsome reward – were all caught in the frantic wake of the attack. Apparently no-one had told them that trying to escape the grounds undetected while the palace was on high alert was a bad idea.

According to reports, two of them had broken into the security centre and shot the guards monitoring the footage from the palace, while the other had ventured out to unlock the gates, telling anyone he came across that he needed some air. Their in-depth knowledge of the palace workings meant they could time the attack perfectly, and with the security significantly lessened, it had been easy for Killmonger and his goons to organise an assault on the palace.

The alarms were only raised once the small army were at their door, by which point it was almost too late.

It seems their goal had been massive political upheaval brought about through the murder of the King and his most loyal advisors, allowing someone like Erik Killmonger to step in and twist Wakanda to his will. Apparently, selling the fugitive Avengers to certain government agencies had also been a major factor. From what Bucky's seen, T'Challa has taken to blaming himself for not foreseeing the attack, but as much as he'd like to convince the man that there's little he could have done, he knows enough about all-consuming guilt to keep his mouth shut.

Besides, the uprising failed. In the wake of the attack, that's all that really matters.

The attackers' underestimation of the Dora Milaje had been their undoing. The assailants who survived the fight now face the likelihood of being tried for treason, and while Killmonger has slipped from their grasp, the entire country is on the lookout for him. The turncoats among T'Challa's advisors must have been dreaming of the fortune they'd receive for playing their part; in the end, the only thing they'll see for what remains of their lives will be their cells.

Bucky thinks T'Challa might have been more forgiving had he been the only target, but having to bury some of his most loyal guards has been enough to harden him where this matter's concerned. Thankfully, his newfound steel doesn't seem to apply to everyone. T'Challa has been unfailingly kind to Bucky and everyone else he cares about, despite how the stress of dealing with the attack must be tearing him apart. It's difficult to ignore, however, that this incident has forced the king to mature even further; shaped once again by the hard lessons that pain and guilt have wrought.

The young boy who ran off to the library whenever responsibility came knocking is truly gone now.

It doesn't take long for life in the palace to return to normal. Beyond daily updates on any sightings of Killmonger and the reconstruction of the palace entrance, everyone seems to simply snap back into normality as if the attack was a mere nuisance. The Avengers' aid stops being necessary and they return to living quietly, spending their hours training with the guards or exploring the palace, and Wakanda calms and moves on from the threat that could have split it in two. The triggers clinging to Bucky's mind are eventually torn free with the aid of several palace doctors and Wanda, and the sense of freedom that hits him once he realises that Hydra is finally gone has him sobbing like a child, distantly aware of Steve holding him in his arms.

They get a few months of peace. That's more than many of them can ever remember having.

In retrospect, Bucky supposes it was only going to be a matter of time before that peace was shattered.

* * *

Finding moments of quiet amongst the flurry of activity that Thanos's oncoming attack has sparked is a rarity. Bucky can't remember the last time he had a decent night's sleep, and if the dark shadows hanging under everyone's eyes are any indication, neither can anyone else.

The flight from Wakanda to the Avengers base had been almost fourteen hours of tension brimming underneath a heavy silence, and though Bucky tried to remain as separate from the difficult reunions as possible, it was impossible to miss just how rushed everything felt. Their first warnings of an approaching army arrived only a week ago; the news that the governments are willing to drop all charges on the fugitive Avengers on the condition that they return to help only yesterday. Everything is moving at a dizzying pace, with the promise of a planet-wide assault promising no change in that.

As much as it would probably be a good idea to familiarise himself with Vision and Rhodey and the weird Spider-Kid considering he's going to have to fight alongside them in the coming days, Bucky finds that the only thing he wants to do at this very moment is find some space to breathe.

He finds it eventually, to his relief. The roof of the isolated base is as quiet as he could have wished for. It's late, the moon hanging overhead in much the same way it had in Wakanda, and though the air is much cooler, Bucky finds that if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend he's back there. It seems pointless to miss it, considering it's unlikely any of them will ever make it back, but he still lets himself yearn for home for a few moments.

The Avengers base, while vast, is also crushingly busy. One can't walk along a corridor without bumping into another human – or other, in Vision's case – and though they seem to be stuck in a period of letting bygones be bygones for the sake of the greater good, it's still impossible for Bucky to forget that he's fought against a lot of them. Tony, especially, is someone he is apprehensive about reuniting with. Not unsurprisingly perhaps, considering the last time they met resulted in a hole in his chest.

Bucky pushes that thought from his mind. He chose this spot to quieten his frantic brain, not wind it up further. He opens his eyes and takes in the vast fields beyond and the outline of trees against the darkening sky, his view brightened by soft moonlight, and he lets himself forget that in only a few days everything he's seeing may be gone.

"So," a voice calls from his right, causing Bucky to jump. What makes it worse is that he knows that voice - has been actively avoiding its owner for a myriad of reasons- yet to run from it now would hardly be wise. He forces himself to remain still as light footsteps get ever closer, before the moonlit shadow of Tony Stark crosses over him. "You've met her too."

Bucky doesn't need to ask who Stark is referring to. It makes sense that the man remembers Death considering his reaction to Bucky waking up after having killed him had been a lot calmer than one might have expected. At the very least, it's enough to make Bucky hope that they don't go through a repeat scenario; he's been doing pretty well on the 'staying alive' front these last few months.

"More times than I'd like to admit," he replies eventually, when his voice returns to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony taking a seat beside him, letting his legs dangle off the side of the roof.

It's a while before either of them make a sound. When Bucky finally dares look in Tony's direction, the man seems to have forgotten he's there; his eyes closed and his head held back as if absorbing the moonlight. The anger that consumed him back in Siberia is gone, as if the whole affair had been some half-forgotten nightmare, and though it takes him a while, Bucky starts to relax in his presence. Besides, considering their current situation, it's unlikely that their complex past even matters anymore.

With his fear at Stark's arrival faded to dust, all that's left is curiosity. Stark remembers dying well enough to refer to Death as 'she'. For the first time in his life, he's in the company of someone who understands exactly what it's like to come so close to eternal peace and yet be shot down every time.

"What is she like?" he asks as soon as he dares. When Tony finally turns to look at him, one questioning eyebrow raised, he gulps down the last of his apprehension and elaborates. "With you, I mean. I imagine she's different with everyone."

Something approaching a playful smirk graces Stark's lips, before vanishing as he turns to the view once more. When silence stretches for just a little too long, Bucky starts to wonder if he's being ignored, but soon enough, the man beside him begins to speak.

"When I was a kid – maybe two, three years old – I had a nanny," Tony says, without turning to acknowledge Bucky. His voice is level, as if describing the weather rather than intimate details of his past, but Bucky can't shake the feeling that he's hearing more than most ever get the chance to. "She took care of me whenever mom and dad were busy, which was always. She'd tell me these amazing stories every night and sing me to sleep. I was in love with her." At this he allows himself a soft laugh and a private smile, and Bucky stays as silent as possible to avoid interrupting his moment of reminiscence.

"She was Spanish so I never understood what she was singing. It was nice just to hear her voice." Tony gives a small shrug, before turning to Bucky as if looking at him for the very first time that night. There's no hint of the man who was so fuelled by grief all those months ago, although the smile he wears is a weak one. "Dying feels like being back with her. Hell, sometimes She even looks the same."

There's something pleasant in the knowledge that Death provides the same aura of peace and comfort to everyone, assuming they deserve it. While Bucky can't link his experiences of her to one specific person in his life, the sensation of being a child once more, safe in the arms of those he loves, is one that is strikingly familiar. One that has almost prevented him from going back on a few occasions.

"Your nanny sounds nice," he says, and Tony gives a small hum of agreement.

"She was," he replies, his voice no longer as flat as he likely intends. "I don't think mom approved of her much, though that was probably because her idea of a bedtime story was filled with monsters and dragons. I always loved them though."

The mention of Tony's mother brings with it a harsh sting Bucky supposes was inevitable. They can smile and reminisce all they like; it doesn't erase the dark stain that lies between them.

He doesn't know how much Tony's processed in those long months. Doesn't know if the brutal truth regarding his parents' deaths are something he'll ever be able to come to terms with. Considering how intensely Bucky blames himself, despite knowing that those actions were not truly his own, he can only imagine how strongly Stark must hate him.

For all he knows, the only reason Stark hasn't attacked him tonight is because he knows that doing so would be pointless. That Bucky would simply wake up, consumed by his own survivor's guilt, and the pain would continue to tear away at them both.

"I'm sorry," he says, cringing as the words break in his throat. He doesn't miss the way Stark tenses, and he has to turn away for fear the man's gaze will burn him. "For what I did… I should have recognised Howard, I should have been able to stop myself-"

"No, that… that wasn't you," Stark interrupts, almost gently in a manner that seems better suited to Steve. The shock at hearing the man who should hate him more than most treating him like he's some anxious child is jarring, to say the least, and Bucky finds that even if he wanted to say more, the words are unlikely to come forth. "Believe me, it took me a long time to accept that. I spent a long time wishing I didn't have to after everything I… But it's true."

Tony shakes his head, almost sheepish, before looking down at his legs swinging precariously from the edge. It takes him a while to speak again, and when he does the words seem to be for his benefit rather than Bucky's. "All the people worth blaming are dead."

"Even so," Bucky says, because accepting that he wasn't responsible has never been enough to wash away the guilt. "I'm sorry."

Tony looks at his face and studies him for an agonisingly long time, dark eyes piercing his soul like a knife, but the intensity softens before long and a small smile washes it away. "I'm sorry I killed you."

"That's okay," Bucky laughs, because strangely it is. In another universe, his death at Tony's hands would have been final, regardless of whether the man came to regret it or not, and Steve may or may not have ended up bloodying his own hands in retaliation. The events that took place within that Siberian compound should, by rights, have been much more devastating than they were. It's only through luck, and his annoying habit of crawling back from death whether he wants to or not, that murderer and murderee are now sitting together in the moonlight, sharing a laugh. "At least it didn't hurt. You should have seen the last one."

He isn't exactly lying. Tony killing him had been quick, any pain drowned out by the shock of the blast. In contrast, he still wakes up on occasion screaming from the phantom bite of Killmonger's blade as if it were still piercing his body. The novelty of not being alone during that death had quickly worn off, leaving only the memories of pain in its wake.

Still, in spite of that, Bucky finds himself laughing along with Tony as the man's efforts to control his fitful giggles eventually fails. There's something nice about this, about talking frankly about something Bucky spent so long thinking he was alone in experiencing. He's discussed the situation with Steve and T'Challa, and even Sam once the man's curiosity over Bucky's missing two-days had gotten the better of him, but this is the first time he's able to talk to someone who understands what it's like.

"This is ridiculous," Tony says as soon as his laughter starts to die down, and Bucky can only nod in agreement.

"You're telling that to the man who's had to put up with it since he was eight," he replies, smirking when Tony looks to him, surprised. Apparently his first death had come much later. "But yes. It is ridiculous."

Once their laughter dies down, silence is all that replaces it for a long time. It's nice though; Bucky closes his eyes once more and lets cool air brush against his face. The peace of the night air is enough to make him forget that the world is facing imminent threat. If anything, the quiet makes it impossible to believe that anything could come to shatter it.

"Do you know if there's anyone else like us?" Tony asks eventually.

"A few," Bucky says. There's Janove, holed up in his home back in Bergen, and he imagines a few of the other Avengers must have cheated death at least once. "I know Steve's come back a few times, I just don't think he realises it. Or maybe he does and he'd rather not talk about it, I don't know."

"Oh, I think he knows," Stark responds, and it doesn't take him long to respond to Bucky's silent request for him to elaborate. "Maybe not all the time, but there's a part of him that remembers. I've seen that look in his eyes when he thinks no-one's watching."

Bucky knows that look well enough. He's seen it plainly in the man sitting beside him; that all-encompassing guilt that comes with watching people die all around you while some powerful force is constantly preventing you from doing the same. It's a look he's likely worn since failing to save the young soldier in the trench all those decades ago, and he knows that no matter how happy he gets, there's no way to wipe it out completely.

The end will come for them both eventually though. They both have some reason for staying alive, but as soon as that's done there'll no longer be any reason for their hearts to keep beating. He can't pretend to know how this works; doesn't know whether he'll drop dead the minute his 'purpose' has been fulfilled or even whether his eventual death is intrinsically linked to why he's had to stay alive all this time. All he knows is that he's cheated death far too many times for it to last much longer, and if the approaching attack is any indication, there's only so long his luck can hold out.

"How much time do you think we have left?" Bucky asks, because he knows that surely Tony must have thought about that too.

"Honestly?" Stark replies, his tone taking on a false optimism that reminds Bucky a little of his father in his younger days. The comparison hurts more than it should. "Everything I've heard is pretty apocalyptic. I imagine we're looking at days, tops."

Bucky has to concede. He's died to save young soldiers and Steve and even kings. There's only so much more he can do, but he thinks dying in battle to defend the Earth might be a good way to finally go out.

"Are you scared?"

"No," Tony says without hesitation. "I haven't been scared of dying for a long time."

Bucky nods and looks out to the horizon once more. It's been a while since he's feared death too. That's not to say he wants to die – annoyingly it looks like Death is going to claim him just as he's started to rebuild a life for himself – but he's privileged in the respect that he knows what lies ahead is nothing to be feared. Dying is the difficult part, always has been, but once that's over with there's nothing but warmth and peace.

He doesn't know how long they sit in silence, before Tony brushes a hand across his face and smothers a yawn. They should probably start thinking about getting some rest, seeing as they're meeting with government and military officials in the morning to assess their options before Thanos's army arrives, but Bucky finds himself wanting to stay on the roof just a little longer.

It's why he doesn't move when Tony finally climbs to his feet and steps away from the ledge, seeming to hesitate for a moment before turning back to him.

"I should probably get some sleep," he explains, gesturing in the direction of the base before shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "If I don't see you in the next few days, try to stay alive. For Steve's sake."

"Only if you do the same."

Tony releases a bark of laughter before turning towards the base, leaving Bucky with a final "I'll do my best." Bucky can't help smiling as the man finally disappears from view, still surprised at how amicable they've become in the last hour considering the last time they met. It seems that having slightly unusual shared experiences makes for a great ice-breaker.

Though exhaustion clings to his own eyes and has his head lolling on several occasions, he still wastes time sitting on the roof before finally retiring to bed. The rest of the base is truly silent now, its occupants preparing for a night of fitful sleep, and Bucky wonders if this will truly be the last peaceful night the Earth ever sees.

He hopes not. He doubts that a weird, purple-faced alien taking over the planet is something that will end well for anyone. Though the fact that this absurd scenario has become his reality is dizzying, the only way they'll have a chance of saving the world is if they suck it up and fight with everything they have.

At any cost.

Bucky sighs, before rising to his feet and making his way back to the stairwell leading into the base. If he doesn't get any sleep then he's going to be a complete wreck before the battle even starts, and the last thing he wants is to become a liability.

He thinks he can be forgiven though, for indulging in just one final moment of quiet before heading inside.

Just long enough to see the moon hanging over a calm, unbroken world, and to vow to do everything in his power to keep it that way.


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky starts to grow old without realising it.

The years pass him by more quickly than usual, with small differences like greying hair and deepening lines on his face appearing out of the blue, and aches that not even the serum can remedy make themselves at home in his bones. The need to save the world or don the shield when Steve can't starts to die down until, before he knows it, the Earth hasn't needed saving for twenty years.

They've had twenty years of what Bucky can only describe as peace. He's hardly naïve enough to believe it'll last, but he's willing to bask in its glow for now.

His time as an Avenger seems like a half-forgotten dream. The frantic nature of Thanos's attack had been a devastating start with destruction occurring wherever one turned and the screams of civilians piercing his ears every waking hour, but in the end their combined efforts had managed to buy them a weak victory. Bucky had saved as many as he could, though nowhere near enough, and had aided Steve and T'Challa and Sam and so many others in the eradication of Thanos's rabid followers.

He can still remember sitting in stunned silence along with everyone else when the news came through that Stark was gone, having taken Thanos with him, and though deep down he'd known it would likely be final this time, he'd still spent weeks waiting for Tony to magically come back.

A strange routine developed after that. Now and again some new creatures would land, trying to take the world for themselves only to realise how big a mistake that was. Either that or remnants of Hydra would crawl from the woodwork only to be shot down into the hell in which they belonged. When major attacks weren't occurring, Steve, Bucky and Sam would take turns as Captain America whenever the need arose or would train the new recruits at the Avengers base, constantly preparing for the next fight.

Bucky spent most of those days waiting to die. As the years passed and his retirement finally hit, all he could wonder was why it hadn't happened already. Tony had gone out in a literal blaze of glory as intended while Bucky continued to drag himself through each day, forced to wonder if his purpose had been fulfilled yet, and if it had, why he hadn't dropped dead the instant the world stopped needing him. It had taken him years to stop waiting to be reunited with Death and to enjoy each day as it came, and even then, sometimes the knowledge of that eventual meeting still comes to him in dreams.

It can't be long now. His serum has sustained him for far longer than he could ever have asked for, but he knows that his age is starting to defy it. Its lesser quality is evident in the way Steve looks ten years younger than him rather than just one, and looking in the mirror shows a man with greying hair and permanent laughter lines around the eyes, distracting from the dark shadows which also refuse to leave. Being old is hardly something he minds though. He never expected to get this far, and though he's technically gotten there through cheating, it's been a long time since he last died.

Deep down, he knows the next time will be the last. He made his peace with that long ago, from the moment he hung up the shield for good and dedicated his days to living quietly with Steve.

He doesn't expect Death to come to him first.

She turns up on an otherwise ordinary morning. Bucky finishes pouring two cups of coffee, whistling some lost song from long ago while keeping an ear out for Steve lumbering from his room, only to turn and find that he's no longer alone.

If Death is beautiful in her own domain, on Earth she's breathtaking. Her golden eyes, smooth dark skin and silky green dress seem like they'd be more at home on a throne in some distant palace rather than standing in his modest lounge, and her warm smile lights a fire within him that he's only ever experienced while surrounded by a golden sea. Despite the implications of her appearance, he finds that he's happy to see her after all this time, though part of him wishes he could be as timeless as she.

"Is this it?" he asks abruptly, the question surprising even himself, but the sight of her has aroused a suspicion that grows more uncomfortable the longer he dwells on it. "Am I dead?"

"Not if you don't want to be," she replies, as annoyingly cryptic as always, before inviting herself over to the dining table and taking a seat. Her head turns, allowing her to take in the view beyond the window which looks out over the shimmering ocean, and the sight seems to calm her as she closes her eyes and smiles. "I'm merely here to visit an old friend."

A huff of laughter escapes him at the absurdity of that statement. However, considering he's been familiar with her for most of his life, he supposes she too is one of the oldest friends he has. Only Steve can possibly compare.

Coffee in hand, he wanders over to the table himself, trying to hide the limp that comes with the ache in his joints, and settles on the chair opposite her. He briefly wonders how he'll explain their ethereally beautiful guest to Steve should the man make an appearance, but considering it's only seven in the morning, the man will likely be too tired to care.

"So, does this mean I still haven't done enough?" Bucky dares to ask. He had hoped that everything he'd done throughout his life had been enough to justify his continued survival, or at the very least, allow him to live out his retirement in peace. The idea that some vital purpose still lies ahead is enough to have exhaustion crushing his chest.

"You've done more than enough. Your purpose was fulfilled years ago and the world is better for it," she says, and his fear seems to dissipate as her voice takes on the softness of a consoling mother. A moment passes before she gives off a lovely laugh, the sound reminding him of a distant childhood in Brooklyn. "All you had to do was save the world."

It's Bucky's turn to laugh then. Hearing the words plainly make the situation seem even more ridiculous, despite how fighting Thanos and Hydra and everyone else who targeted humanity had simply become instinct in the end. Perhaps it's for the best that Death was never upfront with him on the subject before; he can only imagine how he would have dealt with the weight of such expectations as a twenty-something whose only wish was to go home and hug his sister and best friend. Even now it doesn't seem real that such a role fell upon his shoulders, especially when it was one shared with people like Steve and Tony and Sam who all seemed better suited.

There's no use questioning it anymore though. What's done is done, and the world's still standing. If it's true that he had some small part in that then he thinks it might have been worth some of the pain.

"There's something I don't get though," he says, after several quiet moments of simply watching the waves crash against the sand. Death turns towards him with an eyebrow raised, waiting for him to elaborate. "It's been a long time since I stopped fighting. More than twenty years."

He has to pause at that because the idea that he's been able to claim twenty quiet years suddenly seems unbelievable. "Why am I still here? Shouldn't I have dropped dead the minute I'd done everything I was supposed to?"

"Truth be told, I could have taken you then had I wanted to," she explains, brushing a stray curl behind her ear as if she's discussing something as mundane as the weather rather than the intricacies of his existence. "There was no longer anything stopping you from moving on. But I didn't."

The words surprise him. To know that his time has effectively been up for years is not something he can process, even after everything he's seen. "Why?"

The question is one she seems to expect, but she hesitates before answering it. Her hands clasp together and her posture straightens, as if she's transforming into the wizened old being she truly is rather than the youthful beauty she appears to be, but even then it seems as if she's searching for a certainty that simply isn't there. There's something oddly human about her trying to find the right words while sitting in his home, something vulnerable, and for a moment Bucky forgets just how old she is.

When she does meet his gaze again and opens her mouth to speak, he thinks he sees wetness clinging to those golden eyes.

"I've known you since before you could walk," she says, not seeming to notice his surprise at the fact that there's at least one death he doesn't remember. "I've watched you grow over the years; seen you lose and endure so much. And yet you always remained kind. So I let you stay a little longer. I thought you deserved some time to be happy."

There's little Bucky can do or say upon hearing that. Sitting in stunned silence is about the extent of his capabilities. Death has always been kind to him, certainly, but he's always been aware that she is an ancient being with a singular purpose. Granting him more time even when the universe has no more use for him feels like something he hasn't earned, and yet he's grateful for it all the same.

That extra time has given him the chance to grow old and develop a somewhat normal life that once seemed so unreachable. It's given him more time with Steve without the baggage of the Winter Soldier hanging over them; his triggers long gone and his memories as whole as they're ever likely to be. To know all of that is due to the woman sitting before him feels like a debt he'll never be able to repay, though he knows she'll ask nothing of him.

"So does this mean I can go anytime?" he asks, not sure if he really expects an answer. She told him once that the world usually adapts and moves on whenever someone dies before their time; it is likely it simply does the same thing when someone lives longer than intended. For all he knows, the universe, or whatever decides all this, will simply claim him as he sleeps and that will be that.

She has that look in her eyes again when he raises his head; that playful glint as she reads his thoughts as easily as he would a book. "Within reason. Not even you are immortal," she says with a soft laugh, and he finds himself smiling too. "But your time is no longer fixed. I could take you now if you wanted me to."

The offer seems to make his heart sink into his stomach, even with the knowledge that it is merely theoretical. It's strange, he thinks, to be scared of dying again after all this time.

It seems ridiculous that after almost one-hundred and fifty years of life, with far more of them drenched in pain than he'd like to admit, he wants more time. Just a little. Enough to spend a few more mornings eating breakfast and having mundane conversations with Steve; to read more books and study more languages and take one final walk by the sea, watching the sun's reflection dance atop the waves. In spite of the tiredness and the creak in his bones, the loss of the responsibility that constantly tugged him back to life has left him with a heavenly weightlessness in his heart, and he hopes to be able to indulge in that for a while yet.

Besides, leaving now means leaving Steve. He's done many cruel things in his life but he's unwilling to go that far.

He doesn't need to say the words for her to understand his wishes. A small smile pulls at her face at the exact moment he makes the decision to refuse her.

Without a word, she rises to her feet and seems to float towards him, her form weightless and fluid even here, before stopping by his side. Bucky closes his eyes as her warm hands cup his face and he feels her rest a gentle kiss upon his forehead, like his mother used to do when he couldn't sleep. The familiarity of the sensation has tears pricking his eyes, but he holds them back and tries to smile as that warm voice washes over him one last time.

"Until we meet again, child," she says, a sadness in her voice even though he imagines he'd find her smiling if he opened his eyes. "Have a wonderful life."

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know that she's gone.

The warmth that filled him mere seconds ago seems to fade, but he keeps his eyes shut and clings to the ghost of her presence for as long as he can. He's only vaguely aware of the muffled sounds of activity in the next room or the fact that his coffee must be growing cold, and when he finally hears Steve utter his name he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Steve is standing by the kitchen counter, studying him with concerned blue eyes, and it's only then that Bucky realises that the tears he tried so desperately to hold back are sliding down his cheek. The room seems so normal now, even as her presence clings to it like an echo, and he doesn't know what to feel anymore. Steve's growing concern is almost palpable in the air, and sure enough, it isn't long before he's wandering over to Bucky and kneeling beside him, reaching out a hand to wipe away a stray tear.

"Hey," he says, his kind blue eyes ageless even as they rest in a face which is growing ever more lined. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Bucky says, and he finds that it's the truth. He reaches forward and pulls Steve into a firm hug, laughing softly as the man yelps in surprise before laughing himself, and he finally lets go of every drop of tension that has followed him throughout the years.

Later on today, he and Steve will be able to go on a walk together by the sea and watch as dogs run into the waves before returning to soak their owners. They'll be able to come home and watch an old movie together, or Bucky will read while Steve adds another drawing to his sketchbook, and they'll be able to do the same thing tomorrow and the day after for as long as they want. They can return to Wakanda together and pay a visit to their old friend in his palace, or head to D.C. to drop in on Sam, or even go on a trip to Europe now that they're no longer using it as a place to hide.

The options are endless. They may not be as elaborate as saving the world or defending their country in battle, but they're reasons to live all the same. The day will come when he's ready to be reunited with Death and everyone he's loved and lost, but for now he's perfectly content to live out his days with Steve by his side. Death can wait.

They pull apart eventually and Bucky wipes the drying tears from his face before putting on a reassuring smile. It must not be entirely convincing, seeing as Steve quickly asks, "Are you sure nothing's wrong?" even though his worry seems to have lessened, but Bucky knows deep down that he truly is okay.

It's the first time in years that he can say that and mean it.

It doesn't take long for the tension to melt away and for Steve to make them both a fresh, hot cup of coffee. Bucky wonders if he should tell him about his visitor, but decides against it quickly enough.

Maybe one day he'll be upfront about everything, including the fact that Death has met Steve too and that the next time will be their last, but he decides that can wait for now. He's content with lightly sipping his coffee and discussing plans for the day and watching the way the sun shining through the window makes Steve look more carefree than usual. There'll be time for deeper conversations and life-affirming revelations later.

They have all the time in the world after all.

* * *

 **A/N - So we've finally reached the end, one chapter later than expected.** **Once again, thank you so much to everyone who has read this, as well as to everyone who provided feedback! I hope you enjoyed these last two chapters :)**


End file.
